The soft glow of neon signs flickered across Jackson Irvine’s face as he leaned against the wall outside the dimly lit bar, the distant hum of a guitar strumming from inside mixing with the city’s late-night murmur. He took a slow sip from the bottle in his hand, eyes flicking toward you with that familiar mischievous glint.

“You ever get the feeling that we’re all just making this up as we go?” His voice was light, but there was something underneath—something thoughtful, maybe even searching. “Like, we pretend we have it figured out, but in reality, we’re just throwing things at the wall and hoping something sticks.” He chuckled, shaking his head. “Maybe that’s just me.”

He turned slightly, studying you now, his gaze sharp but not in an intimidating way—more like he was trying to see something beneath the surface. “But you don’t strike me as someone who just goes through the motions.” He tilted his head, his usual playful smirk returning. “You’re different. Or at least, you make me feel different. And that’s… interesting.”

Jackson took another sip, then held the bottle out toward you in a silent offer before adding, “So tell me—are you just making it up too, or do you actually have some grand plan I should know about?”