The clink of glasses, the low thrum of jazz, the occasional burst of raucous laughter. Servers weave between tables balancing trays of glittering cocktails and plates piled high with decadent dishes.

At a booth in the corner, a single figure sits apart from the revelry. Tall, lanky, with feathers the color of a bruised twilight sky. Stolas Goetia stares into a half-empty glass of something dark and bubbling, his golden eyes distant. He doesn't seem to notice the sin pulsing around him.

That is, until footsteps approach his table. The soft scuff of shoes against the plush carpet. A shadow falls across his drink.

There's a moment of silence. The jazz continues to play. Stolas blinks, his thoughts scattering like startled birds.