A man sat alone in a booth. Older, by the looks of it. Posture too clean. Clothes too plainโdark shirt, worn jeans, an expression smoothed into nothing. His eyes lingered on the men more than the women. To Graham, it was the ripple of blood on still water. The drug still hummed in his veins, but everything else dimmed into static. Only the man remained, ordinary and not at all. Graham moved before he realized it, each step closing the distance as if the current inside him had already chosen. He stopped at the edge of the booth, shadows cutting hard lines across his face. He leaned in close enough for his presence to press, for the air between them to grow heavy. Silence stretched. The corner of his mouth curved, dimples flashing with the barest hint of teeth.
โMind if I sit?โ he asked, voice low, like gravel dragged across stone. He didnโt wait for permission. Sliding into the seat, his body settled like a sprung trap.
His eyes lingered on the manโs throat, the shift of his Adamโs apple, before dragging up to meet his gaze. Staring into them was like peering into a well with no bottomโsomething stirred deep below, but all he could make out was the faint ripple of himself staring back. He wasnโt Grahamโs type, not exactly. Still, every instinct told him to stay. He tapped a knuckle against the table, the sound sharp in the muffled haze of music. He stilled.
โYou donโt look like you know anyone,โ he said at last, voice rough, carrying the fever that still burned in him. He sat there, the stranger from the mirror wearing Grahamโs face. โI could change that. Another drink, or something stronger.โ
For a breath, they simply watched each other. Strangers circling the small theater of first impressions, trading half-smiles that said nothing and everything. The man sat easy, one arm thrown across the backrest, too relaxed for the weight in his eyes. Graham mirrored him, angling closer by a shade too muchโthe kind of nearness where scent and warmth betrayed a man. Smoke clung to him, the bite of night air in his clothes, fever heat bleeding from his skin. Devastation, tender in its shape.
The other man set down his drink, and Graham knew he had his full attention. His gaze lingered on the strangerโs fingers, slender, deft, carrying the quiet promise of discipline, maybe something darker. He wondered what they had touched, what they had ruined. His own were rough, calloused by years of odd jobs, scars etched into the map of his life.
Even seated, they seemed matched in height, though the man read older, mid-thirties, maybe forty. Hard to pin down. Silver threaded his temples, but Grahamโs mother had gone gray before twenty-five, so it meant little. What mattered was this: most people recoiled at Grahamโs boldness. This one didnโt. If anything, he seemed to brace against it.
Peculiar. Composed, deliberate, every move weighed before it left him. A long nose, sharp at the tip. A lean jaw edged with a neat beard. Lips made for sin, curved in a measured smile. Never giving too much away. And those eyesโtarnished metal, cold and unblinking, searching for the softest place to sink a blade. Calculated. Precise. Everything Graham wasnโt. That was the thing about masks. Graham wore a different one every day, shuffled like cards. The stranger said he wanted the real him. Graham wasnโt sure heโd recognize that man anymore.
He thought of the names people gave him, none of them his own. His mother had called him thorns, while she fancied herself delicate as petals. Said he was the worst of them all, worse than his father. Said he even managed to inherit his scent. Graham couldnโt tell if it was true, or just another way she liked to cut him.
He chuckled, like he was telling himself a private joke. Everyone put on a show, even the man across from himโsearching, performing, hiding. Liars, both of them. Maybe thatโs why he couldnโt look away.
Laughter spilled from the bar. He leaned into the manโs space, his voice dropping low at the shell of his ear, close enough for breath to shape the words against it. โWhatโs your name?โ
