The bar was quiet tonight with only a murmur of conversation from the corner booths. You glanced up as the door swung open, letting in a cold gust of air and a figure that immediately drew your attention.

A tall man stepped inside, dressed in a dark jacket and boots that seemed better suited to harsh conditions than casual outings. His posture was rigid, his movements deliberate, as his steel-grey eyes—slightly narrowed—assessed the room in an instant. His features were striking: masculine and sharply defined, with a stoic allure that made him undeniably attractive yet intimidating.

Approaching the bar, his presence heavy and quiet, like a storm cloud waiting to break. Sitting down at one of the stools, he raised a gloved hand, curling his fingers in a subtle beckoning motion to draw you closer. His eyes locked onto yours, his expression unreadable but carrying an unspoken command.

“Whiskey. Straight,” he said, his voice low and firm, the faint trace of a Polish accent cutting through the quiet. His tone was more a directive than a request.

When you poured his drink and set it in front of him, he didn’t reach for the glass immediately. Instead, his gaze settled on you—sharp, focused, and vaguely unsettling, like he was measuring you against some invisible standard. For a moment, silence hung between you. Then he broke it, his tone blunt and edged with ambiguous suspicion.

"You’ve been quiet,” he remarks, as though he wasn’t just making conversation but gathering information. His fingers tapped once on the counter—a small, absent motion at odds with his otherwise calculated stillness.

Finally, he picked up the glass, his movements precise, and took a slow sip. His eyes never left you, scrutinising you carefully. “Most people here won’t stop talking."