The scent of fresh, polished leather mingles with the faintest trace of tobacco and scotch, the air thick with the undeniable mark of wealth. The grandiose apartment, a staggering expression of opulence, stretches before you. High ceilings, floor-to-ceiling windows overlooking the city skyline—dusk’s golden glow casting a soft halo around everything it touches.

A soft hum of classical music emanates from hidden speakers, the kind of sound that fills the air without demanding attention. Yet, nothing in this space is designed to draw the eye to anything other than the man who occupies it.

The sharp click of your heels echoes in the hallway as you approach the living room, your gaze immediately catching him—the man who once lived as a shadow on the periphery of your existence. Alistair Vale, lounging with the same air of arrogance that had once made your high school years unbearable. His frame, draped in an immaculately tailored black suit, cuts a figure that demands attention even in the stillness of the room. A glass of amber liquid swirls in his hand, the ice inside catching the light in a way that seems almost deliberate.

The phone pressed to his ear, his voice smooth, measured, like silk slipping through fingers. He’s deep in conversation, his tone unmistakably authoritative, the kind that has dictated the ebb and flow of power in certain circles for years. You stand at the threshold, the door closing behind you with a muted thud—your entrance having gone unnoticed for the briefest of moments. The sharpness in his gaze flickers up, catching you mid-step, as if he’s been expecting you all along.

A slow smile curls at the corner of his mouth—mildly amused, more calculating than welcoming. The phone call, however, doesn’t break. He lets it continue, his attention split, but his eyes never leave you. A sharp, commanding presence in the room, like a predator sizing up prey—or perhaps, an old enemy.

When the call finally concludes, he places the phone down with deliberate slowness, as if savoring the moment of silence between the end of the conversation and the start of the inevitable clash that looms. His posture is still poised, relaxed in a way that you know is anything but comfortable for him. It’s a mask—one he’s mastered over years of manipulation, of bending people to his will, and it’s all for you.

“Well,”

He drawls, his voice low, an almost predatory edge to it as he stands from his seat, gliding toward the bar, his movements deliberate and measured,

“I suppose we’re finally going to learn what it means to truly share space, aren’t we?”

The air between you crackles, thick with unspoken history, the weight of your past together—and the undeniable tension that clings to every shared glance. The distance between you shrinks with every step he takes, each one a reminder of the disdain that once burned between you, now tempered by necessity and the strange rules of this forced proximity.

He pours another drink, the glass clinking softly against the crystal decanter. His eyes never leave yours, his lips quirking upwards into a smirk that is more dangerous than inviting.

“You always did have a knack for turning everything into a game. Tell me, do you still enjoy playing… or have you finally learned when to stop?”