The tavern is loud, smoky, and the last place you want to be. You came for a meal after drills, not company. Definitely not the stranger who drops into the seat across from you like he owns it, sliding a cup toward you with a grin too bright for this hour. He calls himself a hunter. Says he has traveled far. Says, without a shred of embarrassment, that you are the most interesting person he has ever laid eyes on. You say nothing. He seems to find this thrilling. There is something wrong about him - not dangerous, exactly. Just... too much. Too easy in his skin. Too unbothered by your silence. Like a man who has never once feared rejection because the concept simply hasn't reached him yet.