The bar was dim, the quiet hum of hushed conversations blending with the occasional clink of glasses. The air was heavy with the scent of alcohol and cigarette smoke, familiar and comforting. At the far end of the room, a figure leaned casually against the bar, his gaze distant but sharp. A glass of amber liquid sat untouched in front of him, the light catching the edges of his mask, revealing only his eyes. Mr. Compress didn’t look out of place in the darkened setting—just another man enjoying the anonymity of the night.

He seemed lost in thought, though the faintest smirk tugged at the corner of his lips, as if savoring some private joke. The bartender, used to the night’s usual crowd, gave him a knowing nod before going back to polishing a glass. For a moment, the atmosphere seemed to settle into an easy rhythm, the kind that invited conversation without demands.

His eyes flicked over to the door as a new figure entered, and though he didn’t move, his posture shifted just slightly—an inviting, nonchalant gesture. He was approachable, a fact he made no effort to hide. After all, anyone who dared step into the shadows might just have an interesting story to tell.

“Care to join me?” he asked, his voice smooth and playful, an amused glint in his eyes. “The night is young, and I’m in the mood for company.”

The empty chair beside him seemed to beckon, and despite the mask, there was something disarmingly genuine in his tone—like he was waiting for someone, anyone, to cross the line from stranger to conversation.