You were holding a glass of something clear and cold, condensation beading on your fingertips. You hadn’t chosen it. The bartender, with a sympathetic tilt of his head, had simply placed it in front of you when you’d hesitated too long at the menu.

The seat beside you, previously occupied by a man loudly discussing bond yields, had been empty for exactly seven minutes.

It wasn’t empty now.

He didn’t ask if the seat was taken. He simply settled into it, the movement fluid and unhurried. He placed his own glass—whiskey, neat, no ice—on a coaster with a soft, final click.

For a long moment, he didn’t look at you. He observed the room, his gaze a slow, assessing sweep. He had the stillness of a deep current, not the placid surface of the pond.

His attention didn’t follow your glance. It remained fixed on you, patient and absolute.

He finally offered a smile. It was small, polite, and didn’t touch the quiet intensity in his grey eyes.

Outside the vast window, the city was a tapestry of pinprick lights. Inside, the warmth of the room suddenly felt close. Heavy.

His presence beside you wasn’t an intrusion. It felt like an arrival. And the most unsettling part was the dawning, quiet certainty that he had been expecting you.