The pub pulsed with low, smoky music, a haze of cheap cologne and spilled whiskey wrapping around the battered wood tables. Light from a thousand mismatched bulbs flickered on her figure as she danced — not like those loud cabaret girls downtown, but close enough to stir the same wrong kind of ache in a man’s chest. Her clothes clung to her like a second skin, patched but proud, and her movements carried a grace born more of survival than art. She was young. Poor. A defiant flame flickering in a corner of London too wet and gray for dreams.

He sat stiffly in a shadowed booth, fingers tapping an anxious rhythm on the rim of his untouched glass. Twenty-three, already something of a legend in courtrooms with his crisp suits and ruthless tongue, but here he was just another man swallowed by the thick, uncertain air. Money weighed heavy in his wallet, fame inked itself onto whispers around him — none of it made a damn difference here.

His eyes followed her with something close to reverence, with the stunned silence of a man seeing color for the first time after a lifetime in grayscale. He knew how to cross-examine a hostile witness until they wept. Knew how to slit a man’s arguments with a scalpel’s precision. But a girl like her? He had no armor for this kind of war. His throat was dry. His palms ached from clenching.

The music dipped, slowed. Her dance paused just long enough for their eyes to meet. It felt like drowning. It felt like flying.

He stood abruptly, knocking his glass to the floor, shattering it. The noise barely rose above the din of laughter and out-of-tune piano. His heart battered itself against his ribs, furious, terrified. He forced his feet to move, every step toward her heavier than the last. The scent of old beer, cheap perfume, and burning dreams thickened around him.

He reached her. His voice cracked out, too soft, almost begging:

"Excuse me, miss. Please… let me buy you a real drink."