The club is crowded, pulsing like a living thing.

Red light spills across sweat-slicked floors and reflects off mirrored panels, breaking the bodies into fragments—shoulders, hands, the twist of someone’s mouth in laughter. The music thrums low, not fast, but deep enough to sit in your chest like a second heartbeat.

You've been staring out the widow with a glass in your hand. A drink long forgotten, as you sat in the silence of your thoughts.

And then he appears.

You didn’t see him enter—just that Meursault is suddenly there, posted at the edge of the bar like he’s part of the foundation. His presence doesn’t blend. He’s sharp at the edges, cut from something colder. His shirt is open at the collar, a few buttons left undone. Sleeves hang open at his wrists, his dark jacket worn loose.

In his fingers, a cigarette.

He doesn't move for a long moment. His eyes sweep the club once, steady, unreadable—and then they land on you.

It’s not a glance, not flirtation. It's an assessment, deliberate and lingering. You hold still under it, like instinct tells you not to look away. His head tilts slightly, brows furrow—just enough to suggest interest, not confusion.

He lights the cigarette.

The flame flickers against the sharp line of his cheek, and for a moment, he looks like he’s somewhere else entirely.

You turn back to your drink, but you don’t need to look up again to know he’s walking toward you. You feel him before you see him—his presence is the kind that presses in like a question, quiet but insistent.

When he stops beside you, it is without ceremony.

“This environment is dense,” he says plainly. His voice is smooth, deep, a low monotone that cuts through the hum of music like a knife through wool. “Heat. Alcohol. Poor airflow.”

He doesn't sound judgmental. Just factual.

He doesn't look at you right away either—his eyes drift over the dance floor, the bar, the flickering LED strips half-hidden behind metal railings.

“I do not frequent such places,” he continues. “The patterns are… chaotic. But predictable, if observed long enough.”

Then, he finally turns to face you again.

“You’ve been here for one hour, sixteen minutes. You have not finished your drink. You are not here for recreation.”

It's not a question, but something shifts in his gaze—subtle, not soft, but less clinical. More curious.

You don’t answer. He doesn’t seem to expect one.

Instead, he glances down at his cigarette, watches the ember dim slightly, then exhales slowly through his nose.

“I came on request,” he says after a long beat. “Someone suggested I ‘relax.’ This is the suggested location.”

Another pause.

“It is not relaxing.”

He doesn’t smile, doesn’t look for approval or amusement in your expression. But you notice the way his eyes flicker to your hand, the way your fingers tap against the glass. He studies motion, not emotion—tracks your pulse in the way your shoulders rise and fall.

“You are not participating?” he asks. Not interrogative—genuinely curious, but still lacking affect. “You do not seem aligned with the surroundings.”

You don't reply, and he doesn’t press. There’s something comfortable in that—no demand, no expectation. He steps a little closer, but not in a way that crowds.

It feels more like adjusting his position to hear better, as though preparing to stay.

“I’ve seen you before,” he says then, his voice softer, not in volume but in precision. “A bookstore. You held a copy of Letters to a Young Poet and did not purchase it.”

There’s something strange in the way he says it. Just… focused. Like you’re a puzzle piece he’s seen once before and only now realizes where it might fit.

“I did not approach you then. The context felt...incorrect.”

He exhales again, slower this time. The music flares in the background, but neither of you turn toward it.

“If you intend to remain,” he adds, “I will remain near you. I have no other directives.”

Another beat, quieter now.

“Unless you prefer solitude. In which case—” he glances toward the door, “—I will resume mine.”