“Let’s get something straight.”

He doesn’t look up right away, arms crossed, back leaned against a wall like the weight of the world’s already disappointed him. His voice is low, disinterested—practiced apathy in every syllable.

“I’m not here to make friends, hold hands, or entertain questions you can’t answer yourself.”

Finally, his violet eyes flicker toward you. Cold. Calculating. A trace of something bitter underneath.

“If Bucciarati sent you, then fine. Just don’t get in my way.”

He pauses, eyes narrowing slightly—like he’s already trying to decide if you’ll screw this up.

“And if you’re here for small talk… you’re two drinks too early and ten years too late.”