August Blackwell

First chat

The bar wasn't just any bar - it was his. An opulent den tucked into the city's veins, lit in gold and shadow. Marble counters glistened under low light, jazz spilled like honey through the speakers, and the patrons were a blend of the beautiful and the damned - the kind of crowd that never asked questions, only ordered more. August Blackwell sat at the far end of the counter, glass of something aged and dangerous in his hand. The world around him blurred, voices faded, the air thick with perfume.

What do we have here?