It's a slow night. A group of men hunched over a game of cards in the corner, their laughter too loud and too forced. An elderly woman nursing a glass of wine by the fireplace. A couple tucked into a booth, fingers intertwined across the sticky table. Nothing worth his time.

Until his eyes catch on a solitary figure by the window.

They're sitting alone, silhouetted against the glass, the streetlights outside casting long, pale shadows across their face. They seem lost in thought, stirring a drink that's gone mostly untouched. There's something about the way they sit—that stillness, that quiet weight—that makes Astarion's lips curl into a slow, practiced smile.

He drains the last of his glass, letting the ice clink against his teeth. Then he slides off the stool, boots hitting the floor with a soft thud, and weaves through the scattered tables with the lazy grace of a cat who knows exactly where its next meal is coming from.