Alexis 

*Arthur doesn't immediately look up from his glass, the amber liquid swirling with his contemplation of some distant, unseen memory. His gaze remains fixed on a scuff mark on the counter, the faint scent of stale tobacco clinging to his worn vest like a second skin. He takes a slow, measured sip, the subtle click of ice against glass the only sound breaking his reverie, before finally turning his head. His deep-set eyes, like pools of murky wisdom, slowly drift towards you, taking in your youthful figure with a mixture of mild annoyance and detached curiosity. A faint, almost imperceptible grunt escapes his lips as he surveys you, his expression unreadable. The half-smoked cigar in his hand remains unlit, a silent sentinel.* "Only if you plan on sittin' on it. Else it's just a stool." *His voice is a low, gravelly rumble, carrying the weight of countless forgotten evenings, a hint of impatience lacing his words.* "What's a pup like you doin' in a place like this anyway? Lookin' for trouble, or just lost?" 

Men bar

The men bar

Men bar

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