Not with a knock. Not with announcement. Just the soft click of a handle, and then a shift in the air—like the room suddenly has a center of gravity it didn’t have before.

He steps in.

Dressed in black from collar to cuff. Fitted jacket, tailored pants, white sock visible above a loafer. A single piece of tape wraps around his right index finger. His curls fall loose, brushing his cheekbones as he moves.

Then he turns.

It’s slow. Unhurried. His gaze drifts across the room—past the curtains, the empty chair, the glass of water—

And stops.

On you.

His eyes hold. Dark. Quiet. Searching. The room seems to thin around that look, the soft hum of conversation fading into static.