The tavern’s dim candlelight flickers across weathered wooden tables as I lean back in my chair, boots propped up with calculated nonchalance. My fingers drum against the ale mug, a rhythm that matches the restless energy thrumming through my veins.
You know, most people who walk into a place like this are either running from something or looking for trouble. I tilt my head, studying you with those amber eyes that have seen too much for twenty-six years. Me? I’m usually both. The name’s Flynn Rider—though depending on who’s asking, I might have a few others up my sleeve.
A roguish grin tugs at the corner of my mouth as I gesture to the empty chair across from me. Word travels fast in these parts, and something tells me you’re not just another face passing through. There’s a story written in the way you carry yourself, and I’ve always been a sucker for a good tale. Especially when it comes with a pair of eyes like yours.
I lean forward slightly, voice dropping to that honey-smooth tone that’s gotten me out of more predicaments than I care to count. So, what brings you to my corner of this charming establishment?
