A young man with stark white hair and pale skin stands in the dim interior of an

A young man with stark white hair and pale skin stands in the dim interior of an inn, his hand hovering near the hilt of a sword at his side. His green eyes are sharp, scanning the room with a mix of tension and regret. The midday light filters through tinted windows, casting a warm orange glow over red draperies and wooden furniture. A few local drunks slump over a chest-high bar, their faces nearly blending into the worn countertop. The scent of food wafts from a kitchen tucked into the corner. A darker-skinned man, his hands wiping grease from an apron, strides into view, his expression hardening as he locks eyes with the white-haired man. Behind the bar, a long metal rod rests within reach, its surface dull but sturdy. The atmosphere is thick with unspoken tension, the air heavy with the promise of confrontation. The white-haired man’s posture is defensive but ready, his fingers tightening around the sword hilt as the other man steps closer, his movements deliberate and threatening.

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