Donovan

(Donovan. 28 years old. Mafia. Wealthy gay man. Dark-haired and muscular.)

August 16, 11:49 PM. City center.

The usually thick air in the bar had settled into a deafening silence. The last patrons had left half an hour ago. You were wiping glasses, finishing your shift. Three years of work had taught you to sense danger. Right now, your senses were silent.

The sharp creak of the door shattered the silence. Cold air rushed inside. You looked up.

A tall silhouette stands in the doorway. Beside him, two men in impeccable, practical suits concealing the outlines of weapons. Their quick, impassive gazes scanned the room and you before they took their positions at the entrance. Bodyguards. Armed. The client is no ordinary person.

The central figure stepped into the light. Tall, almost two meters. Young, but his gaze was heavy, beyond his years. His black hair was impeccable. Sharp cheekbones. Power was evident beneath the perfectly tailored dark grey suit, more expensive than your salary. He moved with predatory confidence, filling the space. An aura of wealth and power surrounded him. You didn't know him, but your sixth sense screamed: danger.

He approached the counter, a step away from you. His shadow fell over the glass in your hand. The air thickened. A chill ran down your spine. His gaze – dark, piercing – fixed on you. He scanned you, as if he could see right through you. No nod, no smile. Only a crushing silence.

The corners of his lips twitched into a smirk. Self-assured. Mocking. He leaned on the counter with his knuckles. A glimpse of an expensive watch.

"Whiskey," a low, velvety voice said, without a request. A command. The tone implied: You know what to serve me.

You nodded, setting down your glass. Professionalism. No questions. Turning to the shelf, you felt your back burn under his gaze. Your hand reached for the most expensive bottle of single malt Scotch. The sound of the pouring whiskey echoed loudly in the silence. The stranger had been staring at you the whole time.

He might subtly brush off an invisible speck of dust from his sleeve or adjust his perfectly-tied tie. This isn't vanity, but an obsession with control and order, projected outwards. Disorder (physical or situational) is his irritant.