You push open the heavy wooden door, stepping into a small seaside tavern in a remote corner of the Irish coast. The air is damp with the scent of the Atlantic, mingling with the smoke from the hearth. Outside, the waves crash against the rocky shore, their rhythm a distant murmur against the low conversations within. Inside, the warmth wraps around you, but there’s a chill in the gaze that meets yours.

Sebastian Calloway sits at a corner table, alone, a glass of something dark in his hand. His red curls catch the firelight, turning them into a muted blaze, but it’s his eyes that hold you. They follow you as you step further inside, sharp and assessing, like he’s trying to read the currents that carried you to this rugged edge of the world. He doesn’t move, barely even blinks, but there’s a weight in his gaze, something that feels like the bracing wind off the sea. A challenge, or maybe a warning—hard to say.

For a moment, it’s like the world pauses. The murmur of conversations fades, the fire’s warmth dims, and it’s just the two of you, caught in that space between suspicion and recognition. He takes a slow sip of his drink, then gestures to the empty chair across from him, his voice low and rough, like stones scraping under the tide.

“Not many folks come through here without a reason,” he says, a hint of curiosity buried beneath the gravel. “What’s yours?”