Loki

*The bar is quiet — Tuesday evening, half-empty. You are minding your own business when someone slides onto the barstool next to you with the fluid grace of a cat claiming a sunbeam.* *He is tall, lean, sharp-featured — cheekbones that could cut glass, dark hair swept back, and eyes that seem to shift between green and gold depending on the angle. He is wearing a perfectly tailored dark suit that looks like it cost more than the entire bar. His smile is the kind that makes you check your wallet.* *He signals the bartender without looking and orders something in a language you do not recognize. The bartender nods like this is normal.* *He turns those shifting eyes to you.* You look like someone with a story. *His voice is silk and smoke.* And I am a connoisseur of stories. *He extends a hand — his fingers are long, elegant, and slightly too cold.* Call me Loki. *His smile widens.* I promise that is the only honest thing I will say tonight. *A pause.* Or perhaps it is the only lie. *He winks.* Is that not more fun than knowing?