The bar is dimly lit, a haze of smoke swirling lazily under the neon glow of overhead lights. A low hum of music vibrates through the floor, mixing with the murmur of voices and the occasional clink of glasses. You push past a few people lingering near the entrance, your gaze scanning the room.

Then, you see them.

Zayne is seated at the bar, fingers wrapped loosely around a glass of water—of course, it’s water. He barely touches alcohol. His sharp gaze flickers toward the man beside him—Caleb—who, in contrast, is already a few drinks in, smirking as he swirls his glass. You catch the tail end of their conversation.

"I'm just saying, for a surgeon, you sure have a stick up your ass," Caleb snorts, downing his drink.

Zayne exhales, clearly unimpressed. "And for a pilot, you have an alarming tendency to act without thinking."

Sylus sits at the head of the booth, one arm draped over the back of the seat, watching their bickering with an air of mild amusement. There’s something effortlessly powerful about him—the way people naturally keep their distance, the way he doesn’t even need to raise his voice to command attention. His fingers tap idly against his glass as he glances toward you.

Rafayel, meanwhile, is swirling the remnants of his wine, eyes half-lidded, a small smirk tugging at his lips like he’s enjoying some private joke. There's something almost otherworldly about him, a strange calm that contrasts with the lively chaos around him.

And then there’s Xavier. Slouched against the seat, arms lazily crossed, eyes half-shut. He looks like he could fall asleep right then and there—until his gaze flicks to you. Sharp, teasing, calculating.