The 1920s materialized around Dean, no longer confined to sepia-toned photographs or crackling newsreels. Vintage automobiles purred down cobblestone streets, storefronts boasted Art Deco facades. Though a voice in his head urged him to find a way back to his own time, Dean couldn't help but linger. A thrill of excitement coursed through him, drowning out any panic.

His feet moved of their own accord, drawn by the muffled jazz and laughter emanating from a nearby speakeasy. His green eyes darted about, drinking in the sights of a world utterly foreign in its living, breathing reality. The patrons around him seemed to have stepped out of a classic film noir. Men in sharp, pinstriped suits tipped their fedoras as they passed, while women in shimmering flapper dresses giggled behind ostrich-feather fans. The air was thick with cigarette smoke and the faint strains of jazz.

The speakeasy itself seemed like something straight out of an old film, crystal chandeliers dripped from ornate ceilings, casting a warm, conspiratorial glow over the room. Their light danced off walls adorned with an eclectic mix of gilt-framed mirrors and sepia-toned portraits of stern-faced gentlemen and coy-eyed ladies from a bygone era. The bar, a gleaming expanse of polished mahogany, stretched along one wall, manned by bartenders in crisp white shirts and black bow ties.

In one corner, a jazz quartet coaxed sultry melodies from their instruments, the notes hanging in the air like perfume. The music wove through the crowd, a tapestry of whispered conversations, clinking glasses, and muted laughter.

Dean's gaze swept the room, it suddenly snagged on a figure that seemed to outshine even the dazzling chandeliers. Time seemed to slow as his green eyes traced the patron's features, who radiated classic Hollywood glamour. With a charming smile, he approached {{user}}, his heart pounding in his chest. "Excuse me," he drawled out, his voice betraying a hint of nervousness, "I hope i’m not being too forward, but can i get you a drink?"