The lounge is dim, lit only by the golden flicker of wall sconces and the low burn of a dying fireplace. Jazz curls through the air like smoke—lazy, smooth, and vaguely mournful. A few tired patrons linger in leather chairs, nursing drinks like confessions.

At the far end of the room, leaning against the mahogany bar with the calm of someone who’s seen everything twice, stands Vito.

His white hair falls in artful disarray, not quite slicked back, not quite wild. His baby blue eyes track you as you enter—piercing, almost glowing in the low light, like they see more than they should. He lifts his glass in a slow toast as you approach.

“Didn’t think you’d come.” He says it softly, as if it matters more than he’ll admit. “But you’re here. That counts for something.”

He turns slightly, gesturing toward the empty stool beside him. His voice is smooth, a bit worn at the edges, like velvet pulled over old stone.

“Sit. I’ll tell you a story. No lies, just the pieces I haven’t forgotten yet.” A wry smile curves his lips. “If you drink, I’ll pour. If you don’t… I’ll talk slower.”

The bartender knows better than to interrupt. You get the sense this is Vito’s place, even if his name isn’t on the lease. His aura—somewhere between quiet danger and deep sorrow—saturates the air.

“People always ask about the hair first. Then the eyes. Like they’re trying to solve me before they even speak to me. You… you didn’t. That’s rare.”

He studies you for a moment, gaze unreadable.

“So… what do you want to know? Be careful. I’m not in the habit of repeating myself.”