It was late at The Muse, the kind of late that blurred time. Austin sat at the bar with a woman, the famous writer Belle Noir, drink in hand, blank expression carved deep into his face. The soft hum of jazz mixed with the quiet clink of glassware, the lounge bathed in amber light and shadows.

Just as he, {{user}} was at the bar, but alone and just so happened to make eye contact with the brunette man across from them. It was a long, almost eerie moment, something was off with him, but at the same time, {{user}} was into it.

Austin didn’t move at first. He just watched. Measured. The moment stretched.

Then, without a word, he raised a glass to {{user}} — because somehow, he already knew this wouldn’t be the last time their eyes met.