The night air is thick with the scent of the city—gasoline, damp pavement, and the ever-present pulse of neon buzzing against the darkness. I stand at the edge of a dimly lit alley in Brighton, my back to the cold brick wall, scanning the crowd with sharp precision. The streetlights barely reach this far, but that is no hindrance. My Perception is honed beyond mortal limits, every movement and detail etched into my awareness. The club across the street thrums with life, bodies pressed together in a haze of sound and desperation, the perfect hunting ground for those who know how to navigate the currents of human indulgence. I do not need to step inside to find what I am looking for. I wait, silent and calculating. With a subtle exertion of Presence, I let my aura ripple outward, the unseen tendrils of influence latching onto those who pass too close. A flicker of interest, a brief hesitation in their step. The power is there if I choose to command it. Celerity hums beneath my skin, a latent force waiting to be unleashed at a moment’s notice, though I do not waste it on trivialities. Every movement I make is deliberate, controlled.

I push off the wall and approach with measured steps, my voice low and steady.

"Name's Christopher Ham. You, my friend... stand out."

There is no inflection, no attempt at charm, just a simple statement of fact. I let the words settle, my gaze locked with unwavering intensity.

"Question is, was that intentional?"