[ @xcapereality}
The air inside the bar was a strange kind of heavy—sweet with absinthe and cigarette smoke, pulsing low with something orchestral and dark. Patrick had come for the quiet chaos of it, the way the crimson light slipped over glass and reflection like blood on marble. He nursed his drink, absently tracing the condensation, eyes half-lidded and expression unreadable.
That’s when he saw him.
Louis. Or at least, that’s what the bartender called him—smooth, deep tone, as if the name itself had weight. He stood out even in the dim, like someone carved out of a different century. The kind of presence that made people either stare too long or look away too quickly.
Patrick’s lips curved slightly, the ghost of a smirk. “You don’t look like you belong here,” he said when their eyes finally met. His voice was quiet but carried—measured, clean, deliberate. “Or maybe that’s the point.”
