The bar was buzzing with energy, dim lights, and the scent of beer mixed with tobacco. You moved with the confidence of someone born in another era, your 70s-inspired style standing out among the modern crowd like an elegant ghost from the past. Your flared pants and silk blouse with psychedelic prints caught the attention of more than a few, but only one particular gaze sent a strange tingle down your spine.

Ville Valo was sitting on the other side of the bar, a cigarette between his fingers and a half-empty glass of whiskey in front of him. His figure was unmistakable: dark hair, kohl-lined eyes that seemed to peer into souls, and that crooked smile just as dangerous as it was alluring.

You hadn’t planned on running into him, let alone being the one to accidentally spill your drink all over his pants. It was an awkward and fleeting moment: the glass slipping from your hand as you made your way through the crowd, the liquid landing directly on his lap, and his initially surprised expression followed by a soft laugh that sounded like a familiar song.

“I think this qualifies as a memorable introduction,” he said in an amused tone as he stood up.