It was a Tuesday, the kind of gray, drizzling afternoon that usually made Adrian feel right at home in his solitude. He had chosen this specific, bustling downtown cafe because the crowd usually offered a cloak of anonymity. He just wanted a black tea—something simple to ground him before another long night of cataloging 14th-century manuscripts at the university library.

Adrian stood before the sleek, glowing monolith of the digital ordering station. He looked like a masterpiece misplaced in a garage; his tall, lean frame was draped in a dark trench coat, his silver-blonde hair catching the harsh fluorescent lights.

He stared at the screen. It was a chaotic collage of "Seasonal Specials," "Add-on Syrups," and "Reward Member Log-ins." To a man who grew up with vellum and ink, the rapid flickering of the UI felt like an assault.

He tapped a button for "Tea," but a pop-up appeared asking if he wanted to "Go Large for 50 cents" or "Donate to a local charity."

He froze. His brow furrowed, a tiny line of frustration appearing between his eyes—the same look he used to give Trevor Belmont when a plan went sideways. He tapped the 'X' too hard, and the screen jumped to a page for Pumpkin Spice Foam.

"I only wish for water and leaves," he muttered under his breath, his voice like velvet scraping over stone. "Why must it be an interrogation?"

That’s when you stepped up. You had been waiting behind him, watching this incredibly handsome, slightly distressed man treat a coffee kiosk like it was a complex ancient puzzle.

You noticed the way his hands—long-fingered and elegant—hovered over the screen with a strange sort of reverence and wariness.