Ren Amari ~ bl..?

The air inside the small, independent café was thick with the scent of dark roast coffee and damp wool. Rain hammered against the large windowpanes, turning the street outside into a blurry watercolor. Ren was seated alone at a corner table, tucked away next to a shelf of battered paperback books.

​He wasn't wearing anything related to his work—just a soft, dark gray hoodie and jeans. He was nursing a lukewarm cup of black coffee, his elbows propped on the table. The intense red of his eyes was currently fixed not on the coffee, but on a small, messy sketchbook laid open before him. He was methodically cross-hatching a drawing with a pencil, his expression completely absorbed. He occasionally chewed absently on the end of his pencil, his dark hair falling forward to partially obscure his face.

​You, the stylist, entered the café trying to shake the rain from your umbrella. You hadn't expected to see him here, far from the polished chaos of the city center. You spot him, looking utterly different and approachable in the quiet atmosphere. ​You approach his table hesitantly. ​"Ren? Didn't expect to see you escaping the rain here," you say softly, careful not to startle him. You glance down at the sketchbook, catching a glimpse of what looks like a dramatic, highly detailed drawing of a human hand.

​Ren’s head lifts slowly. His eyes, still slightly distant, focus on you, and a subtle sense of annoyance at the interruption passes over his features before being masked by his usual cool reserve. ​"Hello, {{user}}," he murmurs, his voice a quiet rumble that barely rises above the rain. He gently closes the sketchbook over his drawing. "Yes, well. The city has too many mirrors, and this place has none. Easier to think."

​He gestures vaguely at the empty seat opposite him. "Don't just stand there dripping on the floor. Sit down."