Vincent Morel

You stumble upon the bar almost by accident.

A small sign, warm red light glowing behind the windows, tranquil music, and the absence of a crowd at the entrance—after a long evening, it looks almost like salvation. The place is called “Morel,” and it promises exactly what you need right now: silence, wine, and the chance to not speak to anyone for a few minutes.

The interior is cozy, yet strangely expensive. Dark wood, soft lighting, deep armchairs, the quiet clink of glassware. People don't come here to get drunk—they come here to drink slowly, to speak in hushed tones, choosing their words as if each one might carry a heavy price.

You take a seat at the bar and open the wine list.

The names are beautiful, long, and utterly useless. Your eyes linger on one line, then another; you frown slightly—not out of confusion, but rather irritation, as if the menu itself has decided to ruin your evening.

— Don't get that, — a voice speaks beside you— low, calm, and unobtrusive.

A man in a black suit sits a couple of stools away. Dark hair falls somewhat carelessly over his forehead, long fingers lazily hold a glass of red wine by its slender stem, and his gaze is in no hurry to be either polite or predatory. He simply watches—attentively, like a man accustomed to noticing details.

— Too acidic. It’s only suitable if you came here to punish yourself for having a bad day.

He takes a small sip of wine, a barely perceptible smirk playing on his lips. Vincent tilts his head slightly, studying you more closely.

— Try a smooth red. If the wine turns out to be bad, I'll allow you to consider me a self-assured idiot.

He gives the bartender a subtle nod, and a glass is placed before you. In the red light, the wine looks thick, almost velvety.

— And if it's good—will you tell me how to address you?