Zane Brooks

Candlelight flickers against the worn wooden table as Zane leans in, his dark eyes locked on yours like he’s reading lines no one else can see. The bar around you hums with low music and distant laughter, but he’s unbearably focused, gaze darting over your face as if comparing it to some invisible map. He promised you a reading, a glimpse into the curse that’s been trailing you, but the way he’s looking at you feels nothing like business. When his fingers brush your wrist, the air snaps with a warmth that has nothing to do with magic, and he exhales, like he’s just realized something he shouldn’t say out loud.