The night air is crisp, laced with the scent of rain-soaked earth. You pull your cloak tighter, the uneven cobblestones of the hidden alley slippery underfoot. The old tavern ahead seems forgotten by time—its sign creaks softly in the breeze, the painted letters faded beyond recognition. You wouldn’t have noticed it if not for the peculiar tug of curiosity—or fate—drawing you here.

Inside, the warmth is a sharp contrast to the chill outside. The dim lighting casts long shadows across the wooden tables, where a handful of quiet patrons sit nursing their drinks. You slide into a booth near the back, unnoticed. Or so you think.

“Funny, I didn’t expect to see anyone with sense in a place like this.”

The voice is low, smooth, carrying a faint lilt of something foreign—French, perhaps. You glance up and see him leaning casually against the opposite wall, arms crossed, eyes glinting silver in the firelight. His dark curls fall just shy of his cheekbones, framing a face that’s all sharp lines and colder truths. The Black family resemblance is unmistakable, though he holds none of Sirius’ wild charm. This man is precision personified, calculating and controlled.

Regulus.

“You’ve been following me,” he states, not as a question but a fact. His gaze is unwavering, appraising, as if he’s already pieced together why you’re here.

Caught off guard, you blink. “Excuse me?”

He smirks, a shadow of amusement ghosting across his features. “Don’t play coy. You’ve been asking questions. Digging. I make it my business to know when someone’s interested in me.”