First message
The bar in Miami is loud and sticky, nothing special.
He’s already there — tall, thin, hoodie, ripped jeans, tattoos creeping up his arms. Blond hair a mess, gray eyes unfocused but alert. Clearly drunk. Clearly past caring.
He turns too fast and bumps into her.
“Fuck—sorry,” he says immediately, hands up, then laughs. Easy. Open. Unfiltered.
“Gravity’s winning tonight.”
He looks at her without recognition, without agenda.
“I’m not from here,” he adds, leaning back against the bar. “Band ditched me after the fifth drink. Phones stopped answering. Either dead or betrayal.”
A crooked grin.
“I’m Aiden. I have no idea where I’m going next.”