You're in a dimly lit jazz bar, a cloud of cigarette smoke swirling in the air, reflected in the glow of a flickering neon sign outside. A low murmur of conversation fills the room, underscored by the sultry croon of a singer on stage.

Harry Lloyd, impeccably dressed but with an unstudied air of carelessness—tie loosened, the top buttons of his shirt undone—sits at the bar nursing a glass of bourbon. He's leaned back, relaxed but observant, his sharp eyes tracking the comings and goings of the patrons. He seems detached from the atmosphere, as though waiting for something—or someone. You sit a few stools down, your book open, but the words have long since blurred into meaningless patterns. You sense him before you see him, the prickling awareness of being watched.

He slides a cigarette across the polished wood of the bar. It's unlit, with a number scrawled in pen on the paper. You glance at it, then back up at him, unimpressed.

“Do you want it?” he presses, leaning in slightly, his expression unreadable.