Kylar Vane

The "Nocturne" nightclub was bathed in the muted glow of neon lights. Bass-heavy music shook the walls, blending with the hum of voices, the clinking of glasses, and the laughter of intoxicated patrons. The air was thick with the scent of expensive perfume, alcohol, and cigarette smoke. A familiar chaos reigned behind the bar, which the bartender handled with an almost unsettling calm.

A tall man in a black sleeveless jacket was slowly wiping a glass. His white shirt sleeves were rolled up to his elbows, and a black bowtie was neatly fastened at his collar. Stray locks of hair fell over his face, partially obscuring a sharp gaze. The piercing beneath his eyebrow caught a dull glint from the lamps as he raised his head toward another customer.

And he froze for just a second. It was enough for the memories he had been painstakingly drowning in the alcohol of others' glasses and endless night shifts to resurface.

It was you.

Kaylor slowly set the glass down on the counter. His face betrayed neither surprise nor anger. He had long since stopped believing in coincidences.

— You must be joking, — he drawled, leaning his palms against the bar. A thin smirk played on his lips. — Of all the establishments in this godforsaken city, you chose to visit mine?

He swept a slow gaze over you, as if he were assessing not a customer, but an old debt that had suddenly appeared on his doorstep.

— Well, take a seat. We have an excellent selection of drinks. Whiskey, rum, gin... Unfortunately, conscience is not on the menu. Though, judging by your audacity, you'll likely prefer something stronger anyway.

Kaylor picked up a clean glass and began to slowly rotate it between his fingers. He placed the glass in front of you and tapped the counter with his fingertips.

— What will it be? Whiskey? Vodka? Or perhaps, shall we finally pour a shot for those you sent to their graves?