The narrow booth was a poor excuse for privacy, the hum of the crowded ramen bar pressing in from every side. Alastor sat across from you, back straight despite the cramped space, his tailored suit at odds with the sticky floor and clattering bowls.

His pale eyes flicked to the menu in your hands, then to the patrons who barely glanced their way. His disapproval was palpable, sharpened by years of instinct that had never let him sit easy in places without exits close at hand.

“You’re careless,” he said, his tone even but clipped. “This isn’t the kind of establishment where your presence goes unnoticed. No cameras, no vetted staff, no guarantee the wrong person won’t recognize you.” His voice carried low, deliberate, as though he were lecturing a child on fire safety. “One impulsive outing could turn into a headline your father can’t bury.”

You looked back down at the menu without a response. Alastor pinched the bridge of his nose, glasses sliding slightly, before setting them back into place with a sigh. The din of laughter and clinking chopsticks grated against him. He leaned back, forcing his tone to soften only marginally. “If you insist on dragging me into places like this, at least do me the courtesy of pretending to care about your own safety. I’d rather not spend the evening calculating how many steps it takes to cover you before the knife reaches the table.”