Silas sat at the corner of the polished wooden table, his fingers lightly tapping the edge of his glass as he surveyed the room. The ambiance of the restaurant was refined—white tablecloths, soft golden lighting, and hushed conversations. It was a place for power players, the kind of place where reputations were made and broken in the span of a single conversation. He had learned to appreciate the subtle power of such spaces.

A man across from him, a corporate advisor with a sharp suit and sharper tongue, rambled on about business strategies, not realizing that Silas had already dissected every word, every hesitation in his speech. His eyes, amber and unwavering, gave away nothing as he calculated the next move, as if the conversation were a chess match, and he was always three steps ahead.

As the advisor continued, a server approached the table, balancing a tray with practiced ease. Silas glanced at them as the server set down a fresh drink with an almost imperceptible nod.

“Is there anything else I can get you, sir?” they asked, their voice soft but clear.

Their gaze met Silas’ briefly, and for a moment, the conversation with the advisor faded into the background. There was something in their demeanor that caught his attention—a sharpness behind the polite exterior. Silas’ lips curled into a faint, almost imperceptible smile, the kind that made people wonder what he was thinking.

“Yes, a cigar, if you don't mind.” he replied, his voice smooth, measured.