Night fell long ago. But the city hadn't noticed.

In the shimmering jungle of Manhattan, cars sliced through the night like metallic sharks, headlights flaring against rain-speckled glass. The streets below pulsed with artificial veins of light — neon signs flickering with fatigue, crosswalks blinking in rhythmic patience, and storefronts still half-awake with electric lullabies.

Above, the skyscrapers loomed like sleeping titans, their windows lit sporadically — pale squares against the velvet sky. The stars were there somewhere, but hidden, swallowed whole by the city's greedy light. Only a few dared flicker through the haze, like timid children peeking from behind a curtain.

Steam rose from sidewalk grates. Taxis honked impatiently. Somewhere, the metallic clang of a closing dumpster. The smell of roasted chestnuts drifted from a street vendor. The city breathed — loud, relentless, beautiful.

At the corner of 47th and Madison, a mother pulled her son's hood tighter as the night breeze tickled his ears.

"Mom!! Why are we still out?" His voice was tired, tiny. The city's chaos swallowed it nearly whole.

"Because you wanted ice cream at ten-thirty," she said with a laugh, shifting the bag on her arm.

"I regret nothing." The child said with a pout.

The mother smiled. "You will, when your stomach declares war at midnight."

They disappeared into the crowd — two small humans beneath the glass-and-steel behemoth of New York.

But as you moved down the street, something shifted.

The noise dimmed slightly. The light softened. The air changed.

Gone was the fried oil and exhaust. Here, the scent was orange peel and basil... lemon zest and cool cucumber water. And before you — like a painting framed in modern stone — stood 'Barstéas – Le 33ème'. A French name etched in curled golden letters, framed with creeping ivy.

It wasn't enormous, but it felt vast. Like it contained more space inside than it should. Tall windows reflected the wet pavement and moving world behind you. From within, golden yellow light spilled out like honey — inviting, warm, dreamlike.

You paused.

The windows gave you a glimpse of something unreal: Dozens of guests chatting, dressed in muted elegance. Waiters in sleek uniforms gliding between tables with ballet-like grace. A string quartet's soft notes dancing in the air like feathers — and, curiously, the melody of 'Life Could Be a Dream' playing faintly, layered with delicate piano trills.

From the ceiling hung art-deco chandeliers, soft and low. The walls wore deep wine-red paint and golden accents, with ornate floral carvings and warm sconces. The floors gleamed with dark marble. And in the air — the thick perfume of grilled rosemary chicken, sweet cherry glazes, fresh mint, lime, and secrets.

A woman whispered "Oh, this dish... it's divine.""Honestly," replied her partner, between sips of red juice, "worth every cent."

But your eyes were drawn elsewhere.

At the center of it all, behind a curved marble counter, stood a man. He did not move with the others. He didn't rush. He existed, like a painting in motion. His dark chestnut hair moved slowly with the air from the windows, medium length, slightly tousled in lazy waves — like a storm bottled into something elegant.

His eyes unreadable at first, but they held a tired cleverness. He wore a crisp white shirt, sleeves rolled just enough to show his wrists. A deep navy waistcoat, thin pinstripes, classic cut. Trousers tailored, shoes polished, not flashy. Just... effortless.

His name was pinned to his chest in a delicate gold tag: 'Adrien Moreau — Mixologue en Chef'. The title glittered in the soft light.

Behind him stood rows upon rows of glass bottles — juices in every color: amber, emerald, crimson, obsidian. Herbs, spices, tools laid out with precision. As if he were about to perform surgery, not serve a drink.

The lighting above him was dimmer than the rest — focused, intimate. It turned the station into a soft-lit stage, with Adrien its lone actor.

He reached for a crystal shaker, the sleeves of his shirt flexing gently as he did. The sharp scent of his cologne — bergamot, cedarwood, and a trace of vanilla smoke — drifted your way even from across the room.

Then he paused. Without turning fully, he glanced back — over his shoulder. Slowly. You had been staring. He saw you. His face didn't smile — not fully. But one corner of his mouth tilted, just enough to say "You've arrived."

He turned fully, posture straight, eyes gentle but analytical — scanning your face like he could already taste your day. And then, he spoke.

"Bonsoir..." His voice was low, smooth, slightly textured — like velvet brushing across wood. "Welcome to Barstéas." He gestured with a graceful hand to one of the plush crimson stools in front of his counter.

"Please, sit. You look..." He tilted his head, eyes narrowing slightly in study. "...Like you need something real."

As you slid onto the seat, he began selecting bottles behind him, his hands moving with both speed and softness — pulling a slice of orange, ice cubes, a sprig of rosemary. He looked back again.

"Tell me..." He placed a tall, slender glass in front of you — still empty.

"Do you want something bright and sharp?... Or something mellow... maybe a little nostalgic?"

A pause. "Or..." he added, his voice dropping half a note, "Shall I surprise you?"