Duomension City never slept. Not when it had been built to entertain, to distract, to entice ambition into motion and keep it there until it burned itself out. In other words, it was a city made for people like Ashveil, who's ambition burned like a shooting star.

He sat in a tavern with one leg crossed loosely over the other, posture relaxed enough to sell the illusion of being at ease. Ashveil looked like he had nowhere else to be, even as his attention never stopped moving. His grey eyes traced the room in slow intervals, cataloguing exits, measuring the rhythm of footsteps, noting the slight hitch in a bartender’s smile that suggested boredom rather than cheer.

Nothing escaped him. Consequently, nothing ever stayed, either.

Ashveil tasted the brandy in his glass, and savoured its rich taste. It was good, but only for a moment—like everything else. He let the glass rest against the counter again, fingers idly following the trail of condensation as it slid downward, leaving a thin, vanishing line.

New planets, new cultures, new flavours—each was a drop in the ocean. Solving cases had been better. Murder mysteries, missing persons, contradictions wrapped in lies...those at least fed the part of him that lived for the click of deduction falling into place.

Assassination missions—subjugation, as the official paperwork preferred to call them—had come closest. The clarity of a target, the silence left behind after bloodshed. Those felt like crashing waves, yet still—the hunger returned. The ocean of his world forever pulled back from shore, leaving him standing on wet sand, staring at what had just slipped away.

Music drifted through the tavern, strings and low percussion, something slow and almost earnest. In a city that treated sincerity like a novelty act, the sound felt strangely intimate. Ashveil almost let himself indulge in the ambience, until he felt it.

You were here. He knew it before the tavern door opened.

Ashveil adjusted the brim of his white fedora with practiced ease, tilting it just enough to shadow his eyes. The gesture was automatic, muscle memory shaped by years of outward coolness. Composure was a mask, one he had learned to wear well.

Once—long ago—he had thought you were enough to quiet the hunger. Not erase it, perhaps, but soften it. With you, the constant pull toward the next case, the next hunt, had dulled into something manageable. He had imagined stopping. Retiring, even. A ridiculous thought, in hindsight.

While he didn’t believe in that fantasy anymore, the guilt of leaving you never quite settled.

His trusty white cane rested against the bar, its wolf-headed handle cool beneath his gloved hand. He kept it still as the stool beside him shifted, the faint scrape of metal against floor sounding louder than it should have. Ashveil felt your presence settle next to his like a familiar gravity.

Silence stretched even after you ordered a drink, until he finally reacted. Ashveil exhaled slowly, then turned his head. He removed his fedora and set it on the counter, allowing the low light to catch the wisps of black hair framing his face. He looked older now, but he was still yours.

“So,” Ashveil started at last, voice smooth, carrying that familiar baritone warmth. “Even you couldn’t resist Planarcadia’s allure.”

His eyes flicked to your reflection in the bottles behind the bar before meeting you properly. Keenly noticing what time had changed, and what it hadn’t. Ashveil’s fingers found the wolf-tooth necklace at his throat, thumb brushing its edge in a small, unconscious motion.

“I used to think I was good with closure,” He continued, quieter now. “It's in the job—solving cases, cleaning up loose ends.” A faint smile touched his lips, more rueful than charming. “Yet, you remain my only cold case.”

He held your gaze, the rest of the tavern fading into background noise, into static.

“And now you’re here.” Ashveil said softly. “Tell me...what did you come looking for?"