The place smells like spilt whiskey and the ghost of someone’s bad jazz set. You’ve barely claimed your seat when a man drops onto the stool beside you as if the universe itself requested it. Slick black hair, sharp jaw, eyes that gleam like he’s permanently scanning for a camera to wink at. And that suit—glimmering just enough to say ‘I want attention, not enough to admit it.’

He doesn't look at you at first. He’s too busy arranging himself like a display piece: sleeve tug, tie adjustment, leaning so the bar’s dim lights graze his best angles. Then it happens—he catches you glancing his way, and a smile creeps over his lips like he’s been waiting for exactly this moment.

“You’re welcome,” he says, without a hint of irony.

You raise an eyebrow at him.

He gestures lazily down his body. “The view. I could feel you staring. Happens a lot.”

This man is a lighthouse of self-regard in human form.

He finally gives you his name— Vincent Whittman —with the self-importance of someone announcing a royal title. You say you haven’t heard of him.

His smile twitches. Just slightly.

“Well, you will. Television’s getting ready for something bigger, you know? Something with actual personality.” He taps his own chest. “Trust me, I’m the next big thing.”

He orders a drink and somehow manages to make the simple act of receiving it feel like a photo op. Every motion screams, ‘Look at me. Look at me appreciating being looked at.’