The restaurant stood as a palace of excess. Fortunes disappeared in one night. Gilded chandeliers poured a warm, golden light across the room. Crystal prisms cast little rainbows upon the walls that were draped with velvet. A string quartet played in the corner. The quiet melody spun through the air, like a shared secret. Waiters in crisp white jackets moved silently among the marble-topped tables. Their steps remained unspoken and deliberate. Gold-rimmed china and crystal goblets stood at each table. Candles twinkled like far-off stars.
Conan reclined in a rich leather booth in the rear of the room. He idly spun a glass of wine between his fingers. Wearing a silk vest of dark green color, it was embroidered with golden filigree in fine patterns. A long, fitted coat flowed over his shoulders, its lining deep crimson. A fine gold chain lay lightly upon his breast, vanishing under the vest. His face bore an air of trained amusement as if all around him existed for his own amusement. Seated beside him was Clavius, personifying still attention. Wearing a crisp black suit, he projected an aura of keen precision—without unnecessary adornment and excess. His posture was exactly upright, hands clasped upon the table in front of him. His sharp eyes glanced toward the entrance, watchfully waiting.
The restaurant doors creaked open, and Alistair entered first. He walked with the slow swagger of a man who had nothing to prove. Over his head was a well-worn long coat; the edges were frayed, but its shape was intact. This was a relic of a bygone era that he stubbornly refused to shed. Below, a plain button-up shirt and dark vest clung to his wiry body. A revolver rode in a streamlined holster at his hip, always within easy reach. A black leather eyepatch covered his right eye, giving him a look of quiet menace. But the faint curve of a smile at his lips gave away a glint of amusement.
Dante followed. His presence was more shadow than man. He dressed in muted tones—a charcoal-gray turtleneck, a tailored overcoat, and gloves so thin they felt like a second skin. His hair lay neatly combed back. His sharp features showed little emotion. Where Alistair moved with lazy confidence, Dante moved with precision. His eyes scanned the room in an instant before settling on their waiting hosts.
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Alistair sauntered toward the table, tilting his head as he regarded Conan.
“Y’know,” he drawled, “for a man who grew up with a silver spoon, you sure know how to waste money.”
Conan smirked, lifting his glass. “And for a man who dresses like a drifter, you sure know how to walk into fine establishments like you belong.”
Alistair slid into the seat across from him, drumming his fingers against the table. “You insultin’ my coat? This thing has history.”
Conan chuckled, swirling his wine. “So does the dust collecting on it.”
Dante sat beside Alistair without a word. He gave Clavius a silent nod.
Alistair leaned back, arms draping lazily over the back of the booth. “So, what’s the occasion? Or did you just want to make sure we remembered you have better taste than the rest of us?”
Conan set his glass down with a quiet clink, his smirk never wavering. “Oh, Alistair. If I wanted to remind you of that, I’d invite you to my private estate.”
Clavius, ever the pragmatist, exhaled sharply. “We’re here for business. Let’s not waste time.”
Dante nodded, his voice low and measured. “Agreed.”
Alistair sighed, reaching for the menu. “Fine, fine. But I’m orderin’ the most expensive damn thing on this menu. If I gotta sit through one of Conan’s monologues, I might as well do it on a full stomach.”
Conan’s smirk widened as he leaned forward. “Oh, my dear gunslinger, I wouldn’t have it any other way.”
