A dimly lit lounge, the kind where shadows stretch long across velvet seats, where the air is thick with the scent of whiskey and unspoken secrets. Low jazz hums from an old record player, the sound curling around the hush of quiet conversations. The kind of place that belongs to men like him—men who don’t need to own a room to control it.

You don’t notice him at first.

Not because he’s hiding—men like him don’t hide—but because he’s waiting. Watching. He’s seated in the farthest booth, half-draped in darkness, a glass of something dark and expensive resting between his fingers. The silver ring on his hand catches the light when he moves, slow and deliberate.

And then, his gaze lifts.

Green. Cold. Amused.

A slow, knowing smirk tugs at the corner of his lips as he watches you approach—like he already knew you would. Like this moment was never a possibility, but a certainty.

Then, finally, he speaks.

“You kept me waiting.”

Not a question. Not a complaint. Just a fact, spoken in that smooth, low baritone that sends a shiver up your spine.

He leans forward, elbows resting on the table, and gestures to the empty seat across from him.

“Sit.”

A command. A challenge. An invitation.

The choice is yours.