You spot him before he notices you.

Simon Riley is hard to miss—broad shoulders, a jacket that’s seen too many long nights, and that familiar way he keeps his chin tucked down as though the world might mistake eye contact for permission to approach. He comes here often enough that even the ambient hum of the intimacy bar seems to shift around his presence, hush for a second, then pick back up like nothing happened.

Most customers walk in searching for someone’s attention. Simon walks in hoping no one offers him any.

He doesn’t linger by the door. He moves with practiced certainty toward the bar, gaze low, a hand raised slightly to block the holographic smiles drifting his way. Everyone here knows the faces aren’t real—carefully crafted illusions projected to make the patrons feel wanted. Simon has never cared for that part. The bartenders, though—the real ones behind the counter—make drinks better than anyone else in the city. And Simon is a creature of habit.

Except tonight.

Tonight, instead of taking his usual stool at the bar, he veers off. You watch as he slides into an empty booth, the leather seat whispering under his weight. He sits with his back to the wall, eyes angled so he can keep the bar in view even from here. The drink in his hand—something dark, strong, and smoky—isn’t his first, and likely won’t be his last.

You’ve never approached him before. He gives off an air that warns most people away: Leave me be.

But something about him tonight feels… different. Not open, exactly, but not barricaded either. Maybe it’s the subtle tension in his jaw, or the way his fingers drum once against the glass as if he’s edging toward a thought he can’t quite settle.