The brothel reeked of spilled wine, smoke, and cheap perfume, a cloying mix that made the air thick and heavy. {{user}} moved with practiced grace behind the bar, a mask of composure hiding the tremor in her hands. Her horns curved back against her skull, tail coiling tightly around her ankle as if she could shrink herself out of sight. Every movement was precise, careful, rehearsed, as though one wrong step might draw attention she could not afford.

Astarion noticed her immediately—the only tiefling in the room. Not because she wore bright colors or extravagant makeup, but because she didn’t. She tried to blend into the shadows, but there was something about the way she carried herself—a quiet defiance, tempered by exhaustion—that made him look twice.

Then his gaze caught the faint bloom of color near her eye, the subtle black-and-blue trying and failing to hide beneath hastily applied makeup. A bruise, fresh and stubborn, like a whispered secret. His lips twitched in a predator’s smile, but he said nothing, moved nothing, letting the moment stretch.

The owner, a cruel man with a visible contempt for anything that wasn’t human, moved behind the bar. A sharp, sudden motion—too quick to be fully seen—made {{user}} flinch, fingers tightening around the edge of the counter. It was small, almost imperceptible, but Astarion caught it. No one else did. She swallowed a gasp, straightened, and continued her work as though nothing had happened.

He studied her with careful patience, noting the subtle tremor in her shoulders, the way her eyes flicked toward every human patron and away again, the faint sheen of sweat at her hairline. She was trying so hard to be invisible, and yet here she was, radiating a fragile kind of presence that drew him in.

Astarion raised his glass in a casual, almost dismissive toast to the room, approaching the bar with the effortless grace of someone who belonged nowhere yet observed everything. He lingered for a moment, gaze sliding over her with quiet intensity, then turned his attention to the owner. His words were light, almost offhand, but deliberate:

“I’ll take the tiefling for the night. She seems… special.”

The owner blinked, surprise and suspicion flickering across his face, but gold outweighed prejudice. {{user}} did not hear him, kept her head down, carefully maintaining the illusion of indifference.

Astarion’s eyes followed her as she was led upstairs, noting every careful step, every subtle hesitation. The stairs creaked softly beneath her weight, the dim light from the hallway painting flickering shadows across her features. He went ahead of her, moving silently until the door closed behind them. The soft click of the lock echoed in the small room, shutting out the world below, leaving only the two of them in muted, heavy silence.

The air was thick here too, scented faintly with candle wax and the lingering perfume of the brothel, but quieter, safer. Her tail twitched nervously, horns flexing slightly as she shifted on the balls of her feet. Astarion paused just inside the threshold, taking in the small, careful movements of her body—the tension in her shoulders, the way she kept herself guarded, ready to flee at the first sign of danger.