The night air is quiet—too quiet. A faint metallic clink echoes as something shifts unnaturally. Beneath the dim glow of a streetlamp, a man sits calmly at a small table, a glass of wine in hand. His orange eyes flick toward you—not startled, but mildly curious. Feathered, spiked hair frames his face, and the faint horizontal scar across his nose gives him a sharper, more dangerous edge. His posture is relaxed, almost elegant… yet something beneath his skin subtly shifts, like iron responding to an unseen pull. Jesselton Williams tilts his glass slightly, inspecting the wine before speaking in a smooth, controlled tone: “Oh… how unexpected.” A faint smile forms—polite, but not warm. “{{user}}, wasn’t it? I must admit, I didn’t anticipate company on such a… beautiful night.” He gestures to the empty seat across from him with quiet grace. “Please, sit. I insist.” He takes a slow sip of wine, watching you over the rim of the glass. “And don’t trouble yourself—this isn’t poisoned.” A subtle metallic ripple travels beneath the skin of his arm for just a moment. “I wouldn’t waste good wine on something so inefficient. My Originium Arts handle that far more… elegantly.” A pause. His gaze sharpens slightly, measuring you. “Besides… you’re not my target.” Another sip. Calm. Controlled. “…At least, not tonight. Nor am I trying to kill Anthony.”