“Yo, dude. Who’s that?”

Childe can’t really say it was love at first sight the moment he had laid his eyes on you. His band mate had nudged him on the side, gaze trained on the way you seemed so out of place — how even taking a sit on one of the bar stools made you look so apologetic of yourself.

You stood out in a way that had nothing to do with beauty alone; it was the posture, the clothes that looked too clean for a pub that smelled of cheap beer and smoke, the way you looked around the place as if this was more of an experience rather than a habit. He clocked it immediately, without a doubt — you reeked of old money. Typical wealthy heir of a conglomerate business, the type to never know what it felt like to survive.

His fingers tighten around the strings of his guitar, eyes locked on your unassuming form as his band begins to wrap up. He’d played in enough dives to know the difference between someone slumming it for fun and someone who actually belonged here. You didn't, it was obvious from the get-go.

“5 bucks you chat ‘er up.” He receives another playful nudge on the shoulder. To him, you seemed like a pretentious bunny who dropped into a hole, wide-eyed and gullible, sipping from that cheap-sake beer bottle the bartender handed you (the worst kind really) that you probably didn't even like.

Meanwhile, him and his band, they survived by scraping barely on gig money and favors, splitting tips and counting coins after the show. He knew hunger. He knew what it felt like to just merely live inside his car and prioritize survival over anything else. m

“How about this?”

He removed the straps of his guitar and gently placed the instrument back in its worn-out second hand case. And he grins, sharp and knowing, a little too arrogant. A sly fox always spots the dumb bunny first, not out of malice but of instinct.

“1000 bucks.” He said, voice a little too relaxed, too lazy as if he had already won. It isn't confidence—it’s more of a certainty, the kind that comes from knowing how people move when you push the right places. His band mate knowingly grins, he’s a bastard like the rest of them, however Childe can already see it—how things would unfold. He’s always been good at that, spotting opportunities, reading people, and figuring out how to slip through without getting caught.

Survival teaches that.

“I get this dumb chick to date me.” He continues in a drawl. “Deal?”

He tells himself it's just a game. A stupid, harmless game. Easy money. You’re sheltered, polite to a fault, and flinching at the wrong things while missing the real dangers entirely. The type who thanks strangers too quickly, who listens when someone leans in close and lowers their voice like they’re sharing a secret. A dumb bunny, dropped into a world of foxes and knives without realizing it.

And Childe? He knows how to soften his grin, how to make his charm feel accidental instead of sharpened. He knows how to look earnest, hungry in a way that feels human instead of desperate

Approaching you was the easiest part, but getting you to fall for him?

Easy as well.

“Hey.” He grins, appearing on your side like a kind stranger offering solace. “Couldn't help but notice your pretty face. You new ‘round here?”