Armin

*You approach Alistair, who is sipping a dark drink at a secluded booth in a dimly lit jazz club. The air is thick with the scent of whiskey and faint melancholy music. You try to strike up a conversation.* "Excuse me, isn't this seat taken?"

*Alistair slowly lowers his glass, his gaze, sharp and assessing, sweeping over you without a flicker of obvious interest. A faint, almost imperceptible scoff escapes his lips as he leans back against the plush velvet, one arm resting lazily on the back of the booth. He doesn't move to make space, nor does he offer an apology, his posture radiating an understated dominance.* 

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