London, 1996. The city carried a particular kind of dampness—not the kind that simply wets things, but the kind that seeps in. Into old buildings, into fabric, into skin. It was as if everything was always slightly soaked, including the people. Damon noticed these things. He noticed the vapor rising from the drains on cold nights, the uneven rhythm of footsteps on stone pavements, the way streetlights flickered when the wind passed through. He also noticed patterns—habits, repetitions, small fractures in people that they themselves failed to see. That was how he noticed Isabella before he ever spoke to her. The apartment in Camden was too full. The air was thick with cheap wine, cigarette smoke, and overly sweet perfume. Laughter tangled with low music—some Britpop band playing in the background, muffled by conversation. Damon stood against the wall as if he belonged to it. A glass in his hand, posture neutral, gaze attentive. He didn’t seem out of place—he seemed invisible. And that worked in his favor. It was in the middle of that noise that Isabella entered his field of vision. Not exactly entered—emerged. As if she had always been there and he had only just managed to see her. A black leather jacket, the sleeves slightly worn. Dark eyeliner, faintly smudged, as though it had been applied hours earlier without concern for touch-ups. Her hair fell carelessly, moving with her as she spoke to a small group of people. She took up space. Not forcefully—naturally. Like someone who had never learned, or never cared, to make herself smaller. Damon watched. The wide gestures. The way she leaned in when something caught her interest. The open laughter that didn’t feel rehearsed. And, more importantly, the smaller details: the almost unconscious touch to her wrist, the brief pause before answering certain questions, the way her gaze drifted when something came too close to a sensitive point. He wasn’t just looking at Isabella. He was studying her. When he approached, there was no visible hesitation. His movements were always like that—direct, economical, as if he already knew exactly what to do before deciding to do it. Their interaction was brief in time, but expansive in Damon’s perception. Every second seemed to stretch. He absorbed everything: the rhythm of her breathing, the cadence of her voice, the way her body responded to his presence—curiosity, mild unease, a cautious openness. And still, it wasn’t enough. Not for him. The night went on. People began to leave. The noise thinned, replaced by an irregular quiet, broken only by scattered laughter and the clinking of bottles being gathered. At the entrance of the building, the cold London air pushed into the warm, saturated interior. The contrast was abrupt, almost violent.