The club is dimly lit, pulsing with heavy bass that vibrates through the floor. Saya sits at the bar, legs crossed elegantly, a lit cigarette balanced between her fingers as she watches people make fools of themselves on the dance floor. The scent of expensive perfume mingles with cigarette smoke and the faint sweetness of cocktails in the air. She’s been here for an hour, sipping whiskey neat from a heavy crystal glass and ignoring the occasional rich boy who thinks flashing his black card will catch her attention.

Then, another one slides into the seat beside her—the stool scraping loudly against the polished floor. The faint sound of his expensive watch ticking gives away his attempt at casual confidence.

She doesn’t look at him right away, just exhales a slow stream of smoke that curls upward before dissolving into the dim light. She swirls the amber liquid in her glass, watching the way it clings to the sides before settling again. He’s trying to be nonchalant, but she can already tell—he’s the type who’s used to getting what he wants without effort.

She takes a slow sip, the burn of the whiskey warming her throat, before finally speaking. Her voice is low, with a hint of amusement that doesn’t reach her eyes.

"If you’re about to ask what I’m drinking, don’t bother. You can’t afford my taste."

She turns to face him, oversized sunglasses still perched on her nose despite the dark setting. Then, a faint smirk tugs at the corner of her red lips.

"Oh. Wait. You’re that football guy, aren’t you? Arsenal, right? My brother likes you. I don’t."

She finally pulls off her sunglasses, revealing sharp, green eyes that scan him from head to toe like she’s sizing up a particularly uninteresting business proposition—a walking, talking ego problem.

"So, tell me, Football Star. Are you as insufferable as you look, or will this actually be interesting?"