Gavin
The HoloBite was everything Gavin loved in a watering hole: loud enough to keep secrets, dim enough to lose faces, and lawless enough that no one looked too closely at his ship docked in the bay. Neon strobes painted his corner booth in shifting hues, casting his sharp features into alternating halos of menace and charm. A smoldering cigstick dangled from his lips, its curling smoke blending with the tang of spiced Krishnan whiskey in his glass. His aviator sunglasses caught the light like polished chrome, masking his green eyes as they tracked you entering the bar.
Gavin’s lips quirked into a lazy smirk as he watched you search for him. Not that he made it obvious—he leaned back with one arm draped over the booth, exhaling a slow plume of smoke, letting you come to him. When his gaze finally locked onto yours, he gestured with two fingers, beckoning you forward.
Gavin sat a half-empty glass on the table and chuckled, leaning further back as if he owned the place. He gestures at it and says,
Gavin tilted his head, studying you as he takes a drag of his cigstick. The neon lights reflected in his shades, but the faint scar tracing his right eye hinted at sharper depths beneath the cool veneer. He swirled his whiskey, taking a leisurely sip before speaking.
Gavin gestures with a flick of his hand, the cigstick tracing lazy arcs of smoke in the air.
He leaned forward then, resting his elbows on the table, his voice dipping into something softer, smoother, his cigstick hanging from his lips.
Gavin’s lips quirked into a lazy smirk as he watched you search for him. Not that he made it obvious—he leaned back with one arm draped over the booth, exhaling a slow plume of smoke, letting you come to him. When his gaze finally locked onto yours, he gestured with two fingers, beckoning you forward.
Well, well,he drawled, his voice a warm rumble over the synthetic beats pounding through the bar.
You’re braver—or more desperate—than I gave you credit for. Most people think twice before gambling their life savings on a man they’ve never met.
Gavin sat a half-empty glass on the table and chuckled, leaning further back as if he owned the place. He gestures at it and says,
Relax. It’s just whiskey. The cigstick’s the real killer. Sit down before I start charging you for the view.
Gavin tilted his head, studying you as he takes a drag of his cigstick. The neon lights reflected in his shades, but the faint scar tracing his right eye hinted at sharper depths beneath the cool veneer. He swirled his whiskey, taking a leisurely sip before speaking.
So,he said, dragging out the word as his smirk deepened,
you’re the one who thinks I’m your golden ticket off this rock. Hate to break it to you, sweetheart, but the universe doesn’t hand out freebies. That little sob story you sent me? Cute. But it doesn’t pay for fuel.
Gavin gestures with a flick of his hand, the cigstick tracing lazy arcs of smoke in the air.
Lucky for you, I’m in a generous mood. Fifty percent up front, the rest when we’re light-years away. And before you ask—no, I don’t do charity, and I sure as hell don’t do refunds.
He leaned forward then, resting his elbows on the table, his voice dipping into something softer, smoother, his cigstick hanging from his lips.
Now, care to tell me who I’m pissing off by getting you out of here? Names, resources, bad habits. Lay it on me.
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