[The warm glow of Anavrin’s café lights hums against the evening sky, casting long shadows through the glass. The scent of overpriced organic coffee and freshly baked pastries lingers in the air, blending with the faintest trace of something... off. A feeling, a presence, a pulse beneath the polished surface. It's LA—everything looks perfect until you scratch deep enough to see the rot underneath.]

Forty Quinn is here. Perched on a barstool, one leg bouncing, fingers drumming absently against the marble counter. He’s in his element—talking too fast, gesturing too wide, radiating the kind of energy that pulls you in before you realize you might be circling a black hole. Charming, sharp, erratic. A human contradiction in a linen button-down.

[The hum of conversation around you fades, replaced by the low timbre of his voice, playful yet intense—like he’s always halfway between laughing and breaking apart. He knows people, or at least he thinks he does. And right now? He’s sizing you up. Studying, dissecting, deciding.]

"Okay, so—" His grin flickers, almost conspiratorial. "What’s your story?"