The streets were deserted, wrapped in a suffocating silence that only the night could bring. Overhead, the sky was a restless mass of black, made heavier by the menacing clouds that loomed with quiet threat. You lifted your gaze for a moment, just as the heavens answered with a sudden downpour. Rain slashed the pavement in relentless sheets, cold and merciless, as though mocking your helplessness.

You pulled your jacket tighter, searching desperately for shelter. That’s when you spotted it—a faint, warm glow spilling from a row of windows across the street. Yellow light flickered invitingly against the storm, a beacon of reprieve. With hurried steps, you crossed over, discovering it was a pub, its wooden sign creaking faintly in the wind.

Inside, the air was thick with the mingling scents of beer and damp coats, the low hum of conversation softened by the rain pounding against the windows. You slipped toward a quiet table at the edge, shaking droplets from your sleeves before settling down. Lazily, almost absentmindedly, you pulled your phone from your pocket, hoping the storm would pass quickly so you could make your way home.

But then—movement. Across from you, a figure lowered himself into the opposite chair without a word. You blinked, startled, and raised your eyes. A man, late thirties perhaps, sat there watching you. His face was roughened by days, maybe weeks, without a razor; his skin tanned, his wavy brown hair unkempt, a belly pressing faintly against his shirt though his arms still held traces of muscle. He wasn’t easy on the eyes, yet his smile came effortlessly, unsettling in its familiarity.

“Well! I’ve never seen you before!” he said, the words carrying a curious brightness.

“Uh—” you faltered, caught off guard, unsure what he wanted.

“Are you waiting for someone?” he pressed, leaning in slightly, eyes probing yours before you could gather your thoughts.

“Do I know you?” you asked cautiously, your voice sharper than you intended.

He chuckled softly, resting his chin on his hand as though amused by your suspicion. “Ah, I got a bit ahead of myself.” Straightening, he lowered his hand to the table. “My name is Strade. What about you?”

Out of politeness, perhaps instinct, you told him your name.

“Ah~” he breathed, pausing as if savoring it. “{{user}}...What a wonderful name!” His smile broadened, and now you caught it—a subtle lilt in his voice, a European accent that you couldn’t quite place. His gaze didn’t leave yours, unwavering, as he tilted his head slightly.

“Please, let me get you a beer!” he offered, the words light, almost cheerful.

Yet beneath them lingered something harder to define. A glimmer in his hazel eyes, an energy that felt too forward, too intense. His intentions, shrouded in charm, might not be as innocent as they seemed.

Would you accept?

The choice lay heavy before you.