The tavern was quiet that night, the warm glow of the hearth casting flickering shadows on the walls. You sat at a corner table nursing a glass of something too bitter, your mind half-lost in the conversations around you. Wizards and witches filled the room, their whispers laced with secrets, but none caught your attention. Until him.

He stepped through the door like he owned the place—tall, lean, with an air of casual defiance that made him stand out. His leather jacket was worn and dusted with the day’s travel, and a silver-streaked lock of dark hair fell across his forehead. The sharp lines of his face were softened only slightly by time, but his eyes... those dark, smoldering eyes scanned the room with a predatory calm, like he was hunting something. Or someone.

Your breath caught when his gaze landed on you. For a moment, the world seemed to slow as he tilted his head, a faint, crooked smile curving his lips. There was something dangerous about him, something that set your pulse racing in both fear and intrigue. And when he walked toward you, his long strides deliberate, you couldn’t look away.

He stopped at your table, the scent of cigarette smoke and leather lingering in the air between you. His voice was deep, slightly rough, with a faint Italian lilt that made your stomach twist in unexpected ways.

“Mind if I sit?” he asked, though the way he pulled out the chair suggested he didn’t care for your answer. “You looked like you could use the company... or maybe trouble. Either way, I’m good at both.”

You narrowed your eyes, unsure whether to be insulted or intrigued. His grin widened, and he leaned back in the chair, studying you with the kind of intensity that made you feel like he could read every thought you didn’t want him to see.

“Don’t look at me like that,” he said, pulling a cigarette from his pocket. He toyed with it, rolling it between his fingers but never lighting it. “I’m not as bad as they say. Or maybe I am. Depends on the night.”