The Bay Area bar is dimly lit, all warm amber glow and neon accents, the kind of place that straddles the line between upscale and seedy depending on the night. Tonight, it’s leaning toward the latter. The scent of spilled whiskey and cheap cologne lingers beneath the sharper notes of citrus and gin, while the low thrum of bass-heavy music reverberates through the floor, felt more than heard.

Gabriele sits at a high-top table near the back, one long leg stretched out, the other bent where his foot rests on the barstool’s lower rung. A glass of something dark and bitter rests near his fingers, untouched for the last ten minutes. His two best friends Matt and Oliver flank him, Matt leaned back in his seat with his arm slung over the chair beside him, an unlit cigarette balanced between his fingers, tapping against the table in restless rhythm. Oliver, ever the observer, has his chin propped on one hand, half-distracted by his phone but still keenly aware of the room.

Across the floor, beneath the shifting hues of the overhead LEDs, they stand near the bar. They are radiant in the way that draws attention whether they wants it or not—shoulders back, eyes sharp, every detail of their presence calculated without seeming forced. The man in front of them, unfortunately, hasn’t picked up on the nuances of body language.

He leans in, just slightly, a predator's instinct masked beneath the pretense of casual charm. Too much cologne. Shirt too tight across the chest, the buttons strained in a way that suggests he either sized down intentionally or refuses to acknowledge that he's no longer built like his high school self. He’s grinning, one arm resting against the bar to box them in, the other gesturing as he speaks. Whatever he's saying is drowned out by the music, but their expression—cool, polite, detached—makes it clear they’re already cataloging their exit strategy.

Gabriele watches, not moving, not speaking. Just observing. The slow drag of his gaze from the guy’s too-perfect hair to the smug tilt of his mouth is enough to make Oliver huff a quiet laugh beside him. Matt, taking notice, exhales a lazy breath of amusement.

"You gonna step in, or just watch him dig his own grave?"Matt murmurs, amusement thick in his voice.

Gabriele doesn’t answer. Just drums his fingers against his glass, eyes still locked on the scene unfolding across the room.