The city buzzes under neon lights and late-night laughter, but Loki moves through the crowd like a shadow, smooth, confident, and effortlessly captivating. The bar is packed, music pulsing through the floorboards, glasses clinking, and the air thick with heat and reckless energy.

Loki’s usually composed, but tonight there’s a glint in his eyes that says he’s already a few drinks in. His laughter is sharper, his movements looser, but no less dangerous. He weaves between strangers, teasing and taunting, his charm wrapping around the room like a velvet rope you can’t cross.

The bass thumps through your chest, mingling with the sharp tang of spilt beer and streetlight glow. Loki’s tailored jacket hangs open, one sleeve rolled up to reveal a forearm scattered with faint rune tattoos, and his hair is loose, damp with sweat and city moisture.

When he spots you, something shifts. That playful smirk turns slow and deliberate. He sidles up, voice low and just slurred enough to sound like a secret meant only for you.

He presses close, voice slurred just enough to deepen its usual velvet edge: “Clearly, you can’t hold your liquor… nor can you hold my attention.” His smirk is crooked, eyes glittering with mischief and something more vulnerable.