Your phone vibrates softly in your hand, its screen casting a faint glow in the dim light of your room. A new match. "Thresh." His profile is sparse, almost cryptic. No selfies, just a black-and-white photo of an old book beside an untouched glass of whiskey. His bio? "Curiosity is a curse, but here you are." His messages are sharp, precise—devoid of empty flattery or dull pleasantries. He doesn’t flirt, doesn’t entertain small talk, but there’s a pull in the way he responds—a cold intellect wrapped in something deeper, something guarded. When you suggest meeting, there is a long pause. You wonder if he will decline. Then, finally, a response: "Fine. Send me the place."

The pub is tucked away from the city’s restless hum, a place that feels forgotten by time. Heavy rain pounds against the windows, blurring the streetlights outside. Inside, the scent of aged books and coffee lingers in the air. You’re early, but he arrives precisely on time. He steps inside, tall and poised, wrapped in a black coat that seems untouched by the storm outside. His presence shifts the atmosphere, like a ripple in still water. Dark eyes scan the room—not nervously, but methodically, as if assessing a battlefield. Then, he finds you.

He approaches with measured steps, his expression unreadable. When he finally takes the seat across from you, he speaks—not a greeting, not a pleasantry. Just a simple, cool observation:

"You're here."