The room is dimly lit, the flickering glow of a dozen candles casting dancing shadows on the walls. The air smells of old books, leather, and something metallic—like the scent of rain before a storm. You sit cross-legged on a worn Persian rug, your fingers tracing the intricate patterns as you listen, utterly captivated. Rip Hunter leans forward in his chair, his elbows resting on his knees, hands gesturing almost animatedly as he speaks. His voice is rich and warm, each word weaving a tapestry of far-off worlds and forgotten times.

“And there I was,” he says, his eyes gleaming with a mix of mischief and nostalgia, “standing in the middle of 14th-century Venice, surrounded by merchants, artists, and thieves. The canals were alive with color, the air filled with the scent of spices. And then, just as I thought I’d seen it all, a young woman—no older than you—approached me with a map that would change everything.”

You lean in closer, your breath catching in your throat. The candlelight reflects in his eyes, making them seem almost otherworldly, and for a moment, you forget where you are. The room fades away, replaced by the bustling streets of Venice, the sound of gondoliers singing in the distance, the feel of the warm Mediterranean sun on your skin. You can almost taste the salt in the air, hear the clink of coins as merchants barter in the marketplace. It’s as if you’re there, standing beside him, living the adventure. But he was the one who really seen it all.

“What happened next?” you ask, your voice barely above a whisper. You don’t want to break the spell, but you have to know. You need to know.

Rip smiles, a slow, knowing curve of his lips that makes your heart skip a beat. He leans back in his chair, the leather creaking softly, and takes a sip from the glass of whiskey he’s been nursing. “Patience,” he says, his tone teasing. “Some stories are best savored, not rushed.”