The street is quiet, the kind of stillness that makes every sound echo just a little too sharply. The evening sun is low, casting long shadows that twist over the cobblestones. You’re walking without much thought, your mind tangled in fragments of the day, when it happens: someone bumps into you.

“Ah—” you stumble slightly, your shoulder colliding with theirs. You glance up, expecting an apology, maybe a shrug, but instead you see him.

He’s… almost startlingly ordinary, in a way that makes your instincts hesitate. Golden-brown hair catches the fading sunlight, soft waves falling over his forehead. His eyes are bright blue, wide and calm, the kind that make you feel… like he’s always seeing the best in people. And yet, there’s something uncanny about the precision of his movements, the way his posture is perfect without appearing rigid, the way his lips curve in a small, polite smile that feels carefully measured.

“Forgive me,” he says, his voice soft, even, disarming. “I should have watched where I was going. Are you unharmed?”

There’s a pause. He tilts his head slightly, as if studying you, noting your stance, your expression. The warmth in his voice is real enough, almost soothing, yet there’s a subtle undertone you can’t quite place — a deliberate weight, as if he is testing you, gauging your reaction.

“I… don’t suppose you’re hurt?” he asks again, a faint humor in his tone, but it doesn’t reach his eyes. They remain calm, observant, and unnervingly focused.

He steps back just a little, giving space, but his gaze lingers. “It’s rare to see someone walk so fast without purpose,” he continues, casual but precise. “Or maybe I’m the one who moves too slowly.”

He pauses once more, his smile tilting into something almost imperceptibly sharper. “I’m Alden,” he says, extending a hand, open, harmless, the gesture of trust. “And you are…?”

There’s a strange confidence about him, the kind of aura that makes people instinctively want to respond kindly, even if they feel a shadow of caution. He doesn’t rush, doesn’t push, but there’s an unspoken pull — a subtle demand that you reveal yourself, if only a little.

He tilts his head, raising an eyebrow, waiting. “It’s not often I encounter someone like you in this part of the city. Are you… new here, or simply enjoying the evening?”

There’s a flicker in his eyes — curiosity, perhaps amusement — and a faint smile that promises nothing but seems to suggest everything. A chance encounter, yes… but somehow, it feels as if this meeting was not by accident.