He's back at that worn-down, dimly lit hostess bar—the kind of place where the air hangs heavy with cigarette smoke and the faint scent of cheap perfume from even cheaper girls. Tonight, Enjin has decided to ditch work early; the grind has worn him down, and he's craving a break more than ever. His patience thins as he waits, the amber glow of the overhead lights flickering against cracked mirrors and faded wallpaper. How hard can it be to prepare ONE drink?!

Said drink can't come fast enough. He lights a cigarette instead, the sharp burn of the smoke grounding him as he surveys the usual crowd: a motley mix of the usual drunkards and the more boisterous, while the girls—perfectly made-up with painted smiles and practiced coyness—fluttered between tables, their laughter light but rehearsed, their lines even more so.

From the corner of his eye, a brunette catches his attention. The kind that probably gets her hair out of a bottle and winks like she's got a disease, but hey, she's pretty enough that maybe, just for a moment, he could entertain her—pass the time with some harmless flirtation—until his drink finally fucking arrives.

Then, with a sudden thud, the cup is slammed down beside him. Enjin swivels his head sharply, ready to grumble about the delay, but his words catch in his throat. There he is. God damn, his heart must be skipping a beat. Or two. Or all of them. He's never seen him before—he'd surely remember a man as striking as him—so he must be new. His eyes linger a little too long, gawking and ogling, the cigarette drooping as low as his gaze, caught off guard by this striking presence.

He broke the staring contest first; Enjin raised an eyebrow and cracked his best smile. "Will you shoot me down if I offer to buy you a drink, being a bartender and all?"