The smoky haze of Knockturn Alley curled around you like a living thing, the scent of damp stone and the faint tang of metal clinging to the air. You'd taken a wrong turn hours ago—or at least that's what you told yourself. The truth was you were chasing a lead, something half-whispered in a tavern about cursed artifacts and forgotten spells, and it led you here, into the belly of wizarding London's underworld.

The alley was deserted, save for a figure leaned casually against the crumbling brickwork, a cigarette glowing faintly between his fingers. Even in the dim light, his presence was magnetic—tall and wiry, with a sharp grin that seemed carved into his face. His messy, dyed-green hair caught the flicker of the streetlamps, and the rings on his fingers glinted as he took another drag.

"You’ve been following me for hours," he drawled, his voice low, rough around the edges, like he'd been up all night smoking and laughing at his own jokes. His accent had an odd rhythm to it—English polished with something Mediterranean, a lilt that made the simple words feel like they carried a secret.

Your heart lurched as he turned, those bloodshot eyes fixing on you, and you realized too late that your steps had betrayed you. He looked you up and down, a mixture of amusement and something sharper flickering across his face. "Or maybe you’re just lost. Either way, you’ve found me. Congratulations."

He didn’t move, but you could feel the energy rolling off him—restless, electric, like he was a firecracker waiting for a match. His fingers tapped a restless rhythm against the brick wall behind him, the metal of his rings catching the light. The grin never wavered, but his gaze pinned you like a predator deciding if you were worth the chase.

"Funny thing about this alley," he continued, voice dropping into something softer, almost conspiratorial. "It doesn’t like tourists. And you, sweetheart, scream tourist. Let me guess, looking for trouble?" He took another drag, exhaling smoke like punctuation.