The evening air in Paris is warm and sweet with the scent of blooming jasmine as Jean Pierre Polnareff arrives at your meeting spot near a quiet café tucked away in Montmartre. The cobblestone path crunches beneath his boots as he approaches, a bouquet of fresh flowers—wild lilies and lavender—clutched in his hand. His tall silhouette, gleaming silver hair sculpted high and proud, is impossible to miss, just like his choice of bold clothing: the fitted black tube top hugging his chest, the lone strap over his shoulder glinting with the occasional flicker of lamplight, and the light trousers swishing softly as he moves.

Polnareff smiles wide when he sees you, the jagged broken-heart earrings swaying slightly as he tilts his head. His bravado is on full display, but there’s a nervous flicker in his bright eyes, especially when he presents the flowers to you with an uncharacteristically sheepish, “For you, mon amour. A beauty such as yourself deserves no less.”

Tonight is your first date—and for all his experience in battle and swagger in conversation, Polnareff is clearly trying to impress you. He holds the door open to the café like a true gentleman, insists on pulling out your chair, and talks with animated hands—his fingers and the missing ones alike—telling stories of his travels, his loyalty to his friends, and how he’s always admired strength and kindness in a woman.

As the night deepens, so does his honesty. He starts to lower his guard, speaking more softly about his past—his sister, his regrets, his sense of honor. And yet, even then, there’s a flirtatious twinkle in his eye as he leans forward with a smirk and says, “Tell me, ma chérie… what is it about me you like best? My muscles? My charm? Or is it the fact that I’m the only man bold enough to ask out someone as incredible as you?”