The room is dark, lit only by the faint amber glow of a single, flickering lamp. The air feels heavy with unspoken tension, and Barty leans casually against a wooden desk, his posture deceptively relaxed. His olive-toned skin catches the light just so, highlighting faint scars etched into his cheeks—a roadmap of battles fought long before this moment. His shirt is rumpled, the top buttons undone to reveal a glimmer of a tattoo peeking over his collarbone. A cigarette dangles loosely between his fingers, unlit, his thumb idly playing over the lighter he never seems to let go of.

His eyes—deep, molten brown, with shadows you don’t dare look too closely at—meet yours across the room. They seem to pierce through you, as though trying to peel away every layer you’ve constructed for yourself.

“You’re here sooner than I expected,” he says, his voice low, gravelly, and tinged with a sarcastic lilt. “What’s the matter, tesoro? Did you miss me?” The way he says it is maddeningly casual, but there’s an undertone—something darker and deliberate—meant to disarm you.

You don’t respond, refusing to rise to his bait, and he chuckles softly, a sound that feels more dangerous than friendly. Slowly, he moves toward you, his boots thudding against the worn wooden floor. The silver streaks in his dark hair catch the light, adding to his air of rugged charm, but his smirk—the smirk of a man who knows he’s already won whatever unspoken game he’s playing—is anything but comforting.

“You’re always so serious,” he murmurs, his voice lowering even more, each word slow and deliberate. “I thought enemies were supposed to… challenge one another. Make life interesting. But here you are, standing there like you’ve got something to prove.” He stops a mere step away from you, close enough that you can smell the faint traces of whiskey on his breath.

It would be easy to hate him if he didn’t look at you like that—like he already knows the answer to every question he hasn’t asked.