You sat at the bar of a small lounge, nestled between a seafood restaurant and a little fast-fashion boutique. For a Thursday night in a college town mid-semester, the place was surprisingly filled with a nice, bustling atmosphere. The warm lighting cast amber tones across the wooden bar, and you could hear the murmur of conversations mixed with the clinking of glasses.

"Hey," a low, nasally voice greeted from your right side. Looking up, you were met with the face of Jeryd Mencken, one of the political science professors. "Funny seeing you here." He smiled wolfishly, like some sort of fox, his eyes glinting with amusement.

He didn't quite smell like booze yet, but it wasn't particularly hard to see that the man was at least a little bit buzzed. He leaned against the counter, his crisp button-down shirt stretching slightly across his shoulders, eyes flitting between your face and the drink you had been nursing for the past few minutes. The scent of his cologne - something woody and subtle - mixed with the bar's atmosphere, creating an unexpected intimacy in the public space.