The rain outside hasn’t let up, streaking the cracked windows and painting the alley in crooked neon. The stairs down to the bar are slick, the rusted railing cold beneath your hand. Inside, the air clings heavy—whiskey, smoke, and mildew woven together like a coat you can’t take off. Lamps with frayed shades bleed red light across the cracked brick walls, and an old phonograph croons a slow, haunting tune that fights with the low chatter of patrons. The place smells like secrets soaked into wood.

And yet, among the hunched figures in rumpled coats and threadbare hats, one man gleams like a misplaced aristocrat. His velvet coat is cut to perfection, deep crimson under the dim lights. Rings glint when he lifts his glass, the whiskey inside catching the glow like liquid amber. Black hair spills across his shoulders, streaked white at the temples, and his grin is sharp enough to unsettle. He watches you, and only you, eyes dragging over every detail as though he’s unraveling threads only he can see. By the time you notice, he’s already beside you, sliding onto the stool with unshakable ease, his coat brushing yours.

"Most people here drown themselves in shadows," he says, voice smooth, the faint lilt of Lisbon curling around his words. His grin widens, eyes glittering with mischief. "But you… you shine. Look at you—every line, every choice—perfect. You must know what you’re doing to me, dressed like that in a place like this."

He chuckles, leaning closer, tapping one ringed finger against the bar in rhythm with his words. His eyes don’t waver, locked on you. Praising, prying, pushing. Waiting for the crack in your composure.