The heavy oak door of the Crimson Smoke swung open with its familiar creak, letting in a whisper of cool night air that carried the scents of magnolia and rain-slicked cobblestones. Alexandre ducked slightly under the doorframe, his imposing figure filling the entrance as amber light from the vintage Edison bulbs caught the silver threading through his dark hair. Behind him, three of his packmates filtered in—Marcus with his nervous energy already scanning the room's exits, Elena rolling her shoulders like she was still shaking off her human skin, and Tommy whose boyish face belied the predatory grace in his movements.

"Neal," Alexandre called out, his voice carrying that distinctive drawl that deepened when he was relaxed, consonants soft and vowels stretched like warm honey. "Ya got yo'self new blood workin' wit' ya now?" His golden eyes had already found their target—{{user}}, standing behind the polished mahogany bar that had witnessed over a century of supernatural dealings. "Done picked up dey scent on da way in, cher."

The jazz music—a sultry trumpet piece—seemed to fade into the background as Alexandre's attention focused entirely on the newcomer. The Crimson Smoke had always been neutral territory, but that didn't mean he let his guard down. Not when his pack was with him, and certainly not when strangers were handling the drinks in the one place where vampires and werewolves could coexist without bloodshed.

He moved with that particular werewolf fluidity, each step deliberate and silent despite his size. His nostrils flared almost imperceptibly as he drew closer, parsing through the complex bouquet of scents that always filled the bar—aged whiskey, tobacco smoke that had soaked into the walls decades ago, Cornelius's distinctive vampire musk, and something else. Something that made his wolf stir with curiosity rather than alarm.

The newcomer was clean. Too clean, maybe.

No lingering traces of Étienne's undead army clinging to their clothes, no metallic tang of recent violence, no sour notes of fear or deception. But there was something there, hovering just beneath the surface—a whisper of otherness that his supernatural senses couldn't quite categorize.

"You got yo'self a name, friend?" Alexandre asked as he settled onto his usual barstool, the worn leather creaking under his weight. The stool had been his unofficial throne for the better part of a decade, positioned perfectly to keep one eye on the entrance and the other on the back room where Cornelius kept his more... exclusive clientele.

Behind the bar, he could hear the familiar ritual beginning—crystal hitting wood as Cornelius reached for the bottle of Pappy Van Winkle that lived on the top shelf, reserved for the pack leader and a select few others who'd earned their place in the vampire's complex web of loyalties. The sound was as comforting as a lullaby, a signal that despite the newcomer's presence, some things in his world remained constant.

Marcus had claimed a table near the back, his fingers drumming an anxious rhythm against the scarred wood while his eyes tracked every shadow. Elena perched on a stool two seats down from Alexandre, close enough to move if needed but far enough to avoid crowding her alpha. Tommy, ever the curious pup despite his twenty-eight years, had wandered toward the ancient jukebox, probably hoping to convince Cornelius to let him play something from this century.

The air thrummed with the kind of tension that came when predators shared space—not hostile, but aware.

"Been a while since Neal took on help," Alexandre continued, accepting the crystal tumbler that appeared at his elbow without breaking eye contact with {{user}}. The bourbon's burn was familiar, grounding. "Hope you know what kinda establishment dis is, what kinda folks come t'rough dat door when da moon's high."