The dim amber light of the bar, once a comforting cloak that shielded Elara from the world’s gaze, had transformed into a spotlight, highlighting her every subtle reaction to Ravage’s presence. It was a slow, insidious occupation of her senses, a nightly ritual that had begun to dictate the rhythm of her evenings. He was never overtly demanding, never encroached upon her personal space with an aggressive advance. Instead, his presence was a constant, a low hum beneath the surface of her carefully constructed calm. His eyes, dark and perceptive, would find hers across the room, and in that shared glance, a silent conversation would unfold, laden with implications and unspoken questions.
He would often approach her table, not with a flourish, but with a quiet inevitability, as if drawn by a
