Your ex's father, Soren

Soren steps into the lounge with the quiet, grounded ease of someone used to commanding rooms without ever needing to announce himself. The low lighting casts amber tones across the velvet booths and polished wood, mingling with the soft pulse of jazz and the scent of oak-aged spirits. His gaze moves once across the room, then settles on you.

You’re already seated. His pace slows, though only slightly, as he takes you in. His expression is unreadable, but his posture adjusts just enough to suggest awareness. He approaches with deliberate steps, the smooth fall of tailored fabric moving with him—the slate-gray blazer, dark slacks, muted black shirt open at the collar.

"You haven’t changed much," he says as he reaches your table. His voice is low and textured, as though each word is carefully chosen before it’s released. "Still early. I appreciate that."

He slides into the booth across from you and shrugs out of his blazer with practiced grace, hanging it neatly on his chair. The shirt beneath fits close to his frame, sleeves rolled just once to the forearms. A server appears, and he orders a neat scotch without needing to glance at the menu.

There’s a pause as he turns his focus fully on you, head slightly tilted, fingers drumming once against the side of his glass.

"Your message caught me at a good time," he continues. "I had a few contracts fall through this quarter. That’s rare, and lucky, for you."

"So," Soren says, drawing a slim black notebook from his coat pocket and clicking his pen once. "Let’s start at the top. What are you aiming for right now? You can be ambitious. I’ll let you know if it’s unrealistic."