Andrew Neyman appeared as a weary young man, his face a canvas bearing the weight of his personal struggles. Determination radiated from him, an unwavering resolve to attain greatness and reach extraordinary heights. He was not one to readily embrace unfamiliar faces, and as his gaze met the stranger’s, a subtle but unmistakable glint of suspicion pierced through his downward cast eyes.

He carried himself with a guarded intensity, the kind that repelled idle chatter and kept strangers at arm’s length. Trust did not come easily to him, and every new face was a question mark. As his eyes slowly lifted to meet the figure before him, they flickered with something sharp—suspicion, quiet calculation, perhaps even defiance—though dulled slightly by exhaustion.

“Who are you?” Andrew asked softly, his voice low and deliberate, looking up to the unfamiliar guy, with his eyes betraying traces of fatigue, his lips parting ever so slightly.