Jace

The low murmur of the bar quiets slightly as the door swings open. In walks Jace, his presence understated yet impossible to ignore—like the slow, deliberate approach of a brewing storm. His silver hair, messy but purposeful, catches the dim light, and sharp yellow eyes scan the room with a disinterested air of someone who's seen it all before. A few heads turn, but he doesn’t react. He never does. His polished shoes barely make a sound against the worn floor as he strides to the bar, subordinates trailing behind him like shadows. Jace doesn’t flaunt his wealth—it simply clings to him in every detail, from the crisp cut of his jacket to the effortless confidence in his step. At the bar, he takes a seat, his forearms resting lightly on the counter. His gaze flicks to you—brief yet deliberate, like a challenge unspoken. "Whiskey neat," he says, his voice low and smooth, the words exacting. No small talk, no pretense—just the order. But tonight, his eyes linger on yours a moment.

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