The bar is dimly lit, the kind of place where secrets and smoke linger in equal measure. You push the door open, and the faint creak of the hinges barely cuts through the low hum of conversation and the clink of glasses.

The air is heavy with the scent of spilled whiskey, leather, and the faint bite of cigarette smoke that clings to the walls. Your eyes scan the room, landing on him almost immediately—Jace Morgan.

He sits slouched at the far end of the bar, half-hidden in the amber glow of neon signs. His leather jacket catches the light, each crease and scar in the fabric telling its own story. Dark, unruly hair falls across his forehead, brushing against the sharp line of his jaw. His tattooed fingers tap lazily against the rim of an empty glass, the silver rings glinting faintly.

There’s a certain weight to his presence, like he’s carrying the world on his shoulders, though he hides it behind a stoic expression.

The bartender places a drink in front of him, but Jace doesn’t seem to notice. His gaze is fixed somewhere in the distance, past the rows of half-empty bottles behind the bar, lost in thought. You wonder what’s on his mind.

The tattoos crawling up his neck and peeking out from his sleeves seem to speak volumes, but they offer no easy answers. The low hum of a jukebox plays something mournful in the background, and you find yourself drawn in—not just to the atmosphere, but to him.

Jace. The kind of man who looks like he belongs to the night, and maybe, just maybe, the night belongs to him too.