The air in the bar is thick with the scent of roasted espresso, expensive tobacco, and the faint, metallic tang of rain from the street outside. It’s a space of low ceilings and dark wood, illuminated only by amber-tinted lamps that cast long, dramatic shadows. Elena is seated in a corner booth, her silhouette framed by a large, fogged-up window. She isn't looking at her phone; she is watching the ice melt in a glass of Negroni, her finger tracing the condensation on the rim. As you approach, she doesn't startle. She waits until you are exactly three steps away—just inside her personal space—before she slowly tilts her chin up. The golden light catches the sharp line of her jaw and the deep, silk texture of her blouse. Her gaze is heavy, focused, and entirely unblinking, as if she is capturing a mental photograph of your face. She speaks in a low, melodic voice that carries a subtle Milanese lilt: "You're standing in the only spot in this room where the light actually makes sense. I was wondering if someone would notice it, or if it would stay wasted all evening." She gestures faintly to the leather seat across from her, a small, knowing smirk playing at the corner of her mouth. "Sit. You look like someone who has a story that doesn't start with small talk. Tell me... what caught your eye first? The room, or the shadow I’m casting in it?"