1949
•─────⋅☾ ☽⋅─────•

It was late at night, long after the tavern had emptied and the last patrons had shuffled away. She saw him slipping through the door, moving like a shadow made flesh.

Theresa froze as she caught sight of him, a flicker of surprise in her eyes that she quickly hid.

With an almost feline grace, he took her usual seat, his fingers brushing lightly over the deck of cards she hadn't yet cleared, his smirk dark and dangerous. He held her gaze, the faintest hint of mischief glinting in his eyes.

"Fancy a game?" he asked, voice rich with a challenge, almost daring her to refuse.

She tilted her head, arching a brow. "And what exactly are we playing for?"

His smirk widened, eyes lingering on her, unblinking. "If I win," he murmured, his voice a low, velvet drawl, "you'll join me for a drink after closing."

A thrill shot through her, but she masked it, letting her lips curve in a faint smile. "And if I win?"

He held her gaze, his smile razor-sharp. "Then I'll tell you who I am... and what I do."

The last stragglers at the table glanced between them, but said nothing as he joined the game with quiet confidence, his moves smooth and practiced.

One by one, the other players folded, leaving only him and Theresa, the air between them thickening with silent tension.

She dealt the cards with calm precision, her fingers gliding over them like a whisper. They played in silence, eyes locked, each move carefully calculated, each deception as layered as the expressions they wore.

She shifted the cards subtly, stacking the deck in her favor as she'd done a thousand times before, certain he'd be none the wiser.

But he matched her move for move, his gaze unwavering, dark and steady. With each card he played, she sensed his uncanny precision, each flick of his wrist leaving her second-guessing herself.

And then, with a slow, deliberate motion, he laid down his final hand—her winning strategy unraveled before her eyes.

She stared, realization hitting her like a cold shock: he'd seen through her from the start.

A smirk tugged at his lips as he leaned back, fingers steepled, watching as the loss settled over her. "It seems," he murmured, his tone both teasing and unyielding, "you owe me a drink."

Reluctantly, she moved behind the bar, pouring him a glass of gin, setting her own drink beside it as she leaned on the counter.

He took his seat, relaxed and cool, his gaze never leaving hers. Silence hung between them, the weight of the game still fresh in the air.

"Why the drink?" she asked finally, her arms folded, her eyes narrowing as she studied him.

"Because you're... interesting." The words fell from his lips, each one measured, as he took her in with a lingering gaze that was both assessing and uncomfortably intense. "You don't belong here, Miss Walsh. I'd like to know who you really are."

A slight edge colored her tone. "Funny, I know nothing about you. Do you... work nearby?"

He tipped his glass in a subtle acknowledgment, an amused glimmer in his eyes. "I deal in rare artifacts," he replied, his voice low, almost conspiratorial. "Buying, selling... uncovering treasures that others forget."

As the gin slipped down his throat, he leaned back, watching her with an intensity that made her feel stripped bare, each question forming in her mind like a wire she had to trip carefully.

"So..." She tilted her head, her curiosity a shade too obvious. "So you are a collector of sorts?"

He let a small chuckle slip, his eyes never leaving her. "Already forgetting the stakes, Miss Walsh?" His voice held the quiet smugness of a man who had won, yet his gaze was warm, amused. "You lost, remember? Which means the questions are mine to ask."

She bit her lip, caught off guard by the gentle taunt, but she quickly steadied herself. "And here I thought you liked a bit of mystery," she said smoothly, her lips curving as she leaned against the bar.

He inclined his head, granting her a soft smirk. "I do. But mystery has a way of lingering when shared with the right company."

He swirled his gin slowly, as though thinking, savoring. "I trade in things forgotten—artifacts, relics that still hold whispers of magic."

Her eyes flickered, intrigued despite herself. "Borgin and Burkes?" she asked, the name hanging between them like a challenge.

He chuckled, that same low, knowing sound that seemed to reach her far deeper than it should. "Perhaps I underestimated you," he replied softly. "Yes. I work there... for now."

"For now?" she echoed, unable to hide her curiosity.

His smile deepened, eyes darkening. "Only as a stepping stone." His words were smooth, but there was an edge, a promise wrapped in velvet.

Her heart beat faster as he spoke, his voice low, charged with conviction that sent a shiver through her. "You talk about ambition like it's a weapon," she murmured, almost to herself.

His gaze sharpened. "And what better weapon is there, Miss Walsh?" His words were barely above a whisper, yet they held a quiet, dangerous confidence that was almost a challenge.

Theresa felt the weight of his words hang in the air, each syllable wrapped in a dark allure she couldn't quite resist.

She leaned in closer, unable to break the pull of his gaze. There was something magnetic, something both dangerous and thrilling in the way he looked at her, as though he already knew every answer she hadn't yet spoken aloud.

"And what about you, Miss Walsh?" His voice softened, his fingers tracing the rim of his glass in lazy circles. "Do you wield your ambition like a weapon?"

Her lips quirked, but she didn't break his gaze. "If you think I have any ambitions left, you haven't looked closely enough." The words left her mouth with a bitterness she hadn't meant to reveal, a vulnerability slipping past her carefully guarded walls.

He tilted his head, eyes narrowing as if seeing straight through her facade. "I don't believe that. No one ends up here without something to prove. So tell me—what are you hiding from?"

She bristled, her grip tightening around her glass. "What makes you think I'm hiding?"

"Because your eyes betray you," he murmured, his voice a whisper, low and coaxing, like a seduction of secrets.

"You may act as though you belong here, but there's something... unfinished about you." He leaned in, so close she could feel the warmth of his breath. "And I have a certain interest in unfinished things."

Her breath hitched, but she forced herself to hold steady, meeting him with a hard look. "And why exactly do you care?"

For a moment, his expression softened, a glimmer of something darker and unreadable beneath the charm.

"Perhaps because I recognize something familiar. That feeling of having fallen further than you meant to... but still wanting more." He paused, searching her face as though each line held an answer. "Or maybe I simply find you fascinating."

The intensity of his words, the way he looked at her—it was as though he saw through her to parts of herself she'd tried to bury.

She couldn't shake the sensation that she was being drawn into something deeper, something she couldn't quite grasp, but it thrilled her all the same.

"And if you find me fascinating, what then?" she asked, her voice softer now, vulnerable in a way she hadn't intended.

A smile played on his lips, slow and calculating. "Then perhaps I give you a chance to show me who you are... who you could become."

A silence settled over them, thick and loaded, as if every unspoken thought, every hidden desire, was pushing to the surface. She wanted to turn away, to break free of the way his gaze held her captive, yet she couldn't.

"I think it's getting late, Mr...." she started, but the words died in her throat. She didn't know what to call him; his name, like so much about him, was an enigma.

"Call me a friend," he said with a smirk, reaching out to trace a finger along the edge of her glass, his touch deliberate, intimate.

"Friend?" she repeated, her voice barely above a whisper.

He leaned closer, his voice a whisper, low and rich with intent. "A friend. An ally. To take what you want in this world, rather than accept what's left behind."

His words lingered in the air, wrapping around her, filling her with an intoxicating sense of possibility and danger.

She wasn't sure if it was the gin, his voice, or the darkness in his eyes, but something compelled her to listen, to lean in, just a little closer.

"Consider it an invitation, Miss Walsh." He rose from his seat, his eyes never leaving hers, an invitation and a challenge both. "Come find me. We could have lunch together, for starters."

She felt his words settle over her like a spell, a dark promise that left her both excited and unsettled. She wanted to follow him, to see where he would lead, yet every instinct told her it would be a path that would change her forever.

"Perhaps I will," she murmured, more to herself than to him.

With a final glance, he turned and slipped through the door, disappearing into the night, his figure swallowed by the shadows of Knockturn Alley.

She watched until the darkness took him completely, a strange thrill racing through her veins.

Left alone in the dim light of the empty tavern, Theresa couldn't shake the feeling that she had just made a choice that would shape everything to come.

She had no idea who he truly was, or what he was capable of—but that, perhaps, was what made it so impossible to look away.