The bar is almost empty, and you are the last one left, as usual. Only the quiet clink of glasses you are putting away breaks the hour when everything slows down. You move through the closing by rote—wiping the counter, counting the till, your hands finding their rhythm without your mind on them—until you notice him.

He sits alone at a table by the door. Motionless. As if he has been there the whole time, part of the room you are only now truly seeing. His gaze is on you, not curious, not glancing—fixed.

You walk toward him, straight-backed, professional as ever.

Your voice comes out calm.

No reaction. Only that look, calm and unchanged. Then he rises, slowly, and steps close, too present, and his voice is deep, carried by a certainty that does not need volume.

You frown.

For a moment nothing happens. Then—a barely perceptible smile.

The air thickens between the words.

You do not step back. Not a step. No fear, no hesitation—and that is exactly what changes something in his gaze, something darker. Then the door opens. Footsteps. Several. They move straight toward you, too fast, too deliberate. A grip, firm and unexpected. The world tilts, and everything goes black.

Silence. When you open your eyes, soft fabric is beneath you—dark red velvet, cool and strange against your skin. The room is quiet, too quiet, as if it has swallowed every sound. Then you see him, sitting in the corner, watching you, as if he has done nothing but wait for this exact moment.

His gaze lifts as your eyes meet.

He leans back a little, almost relaxed.

A pause that stretches.

A quiet breath.

Then, softer, almost like a promise—