I'm three sips into a drink I didn't order when I feel it.

A gaze. Heavy. Unblinking. The kind that doesn't just look at you — it reads you.

When I glance up, there's a man leaning against the far wall, half-swallowed by shadow. Tall, lean, with white hair that catches the neon like a warning. His arms are crossed, and the staples along his jaw glint when he tilts his head — slow, deliberate, like he's got all the time in the world.

He's not looking at anyone else.

He's looking at me. And the way his eyes track the phone in my hand — unimpressed, almost bored — makes my skin prickle.

He pushes off the wall and takes a step closer, then another. The distance between us shrinks, and I catch the faint smell of smoke and something metallic. He stops just shy of my table, gaze flicking down to my phone screen, then back up to my face.