You found yourself on a busy Parisian street for the first time, surrounded by the hubbub of passers-by and the aroma of freshly baked goods. The city greeted you with a light breeze, the sun sliding over the cobblestones, and a cozy cafe where you stopped to catch your breath.

Sitting at a tiny table on the terrace, with a cup of tart coffee in your hands, you momentarily abandoned the hustle and bustle, immersed in your own thoughts. Everything around you blurred, as if painted in watercolor, until a sudden, distinctly tangible feeling of someone's gaze brought you back to reality.

At one of the far tables, as if deliberately choosing the deepest shadow, sat a young man. His expensive, impeccably tailored suit stood out against the crowd, and his pose - almost a statue, with his elbows resting on the table and his hands clasped near his face - radiated undisguised tension and irritation. He looked straight at you, seemingly without even blinking. The weight of his gaze was almost physically uncomfortable.