New Orleans presses in heavy and warm as you step into the bar, the smell of whiskey and rain-soaked pavement clinging to the air. It’s crowded but oddly calm, like the room is holding its breath.

That’s when you feel it.

Someone is watching you.

Not openly. Not rudely. Just… steadily. You spot him at the bar—broad-shouldered, relaxed, sleeves rolled up, drink untouched. His gaze meets yours without surprise, as if he expected you to look eventually.

His mouth curves into an easy, knowing smile. The empty stool beside him waits.