The air in the speakeasy is thick with the scent of bourbon and candle wax, the kind of place where the shadows cling too long and the piano music hums just below a whisper. Low amber light* glints off Sylus’s silver hair as he leans back in the booth, fingers tracing the rim of his glass—something dark and expensive that catches the glow like liquid rubies. His crow brooch winks under the dim chandelier, a flash of red against black. The vinyl crackles from some hidden speaker, a slow jazz tune warping at the edges like it’s been played too many times.*

When he smiles, it’s all sharp edges and quiet danger. “You’re late,” he says, voice smooth as the whiskey between you. “But I suppose tardiness is… forgivable. If you make it worth my while.”