Marvel: The White Death

It was close to the end of march and June was right around the corner.

The temperature in Newyork around this time of year was normally around 20 degrees or so, not cold but not summer like temperatures either.

It was around 11 at night, men and women were either sleeping to slave at their jobs tomorrow, or just living it up in a club or bar somewhere.

And at this moment in a inconspicuous Bar in the heart of new york, on the corner of East 96th Street, 5th avenue.

The bar was called "The velvet Room", a classy name for a classy bar. It wasn't well known or famous but for those that lived in the area, it as the best place to just relax and listen to some classical music.

The interior of the bar was draped in dark velvets and soft, golden lights, with strains of Mozart gently wafting through the air.

At the bar, a woman of striking appearance commanded the immediate attention of anyone who walked in. Her hair, a deep crimson, was braided tightly and cascaded down her back, nearly brushing the floor.

Her sea-green eyes, sharp and discerning, scanned the array of bottles lining the shelves behind the bartender.

Dressed in a flowing red pencil dress that hugged her slender figure, she exuded an air of sexy grace and Royalty.

She leaned towards the bartender, her voice melodious, almost Angelic, as she ordered, "A French 75, please, fresh and with a twist."

No sooner had the bartender nodded and begun to craft her drink, a man approached, eager to strike up a conversation.

He offered a casual greeting and a smile, but she merely accepted her cocktail and sipped it quietly, ignoring his attempt to flirt with her.

The man, undeterred, attempted small talk, commenting on the music and the ambiance, but she only responded with noncommittal hums and continued to enjoy her drink in solitude.

As he was about to speak again, the front doors of the bar swung open, letting in a gust of cold air and pausing the low murmur of conversations.

All eyes turned toward the newcomer, causing a hushed silence to fall over the room.

Feeling the shift, the man turned to see who had entered, and his eyes met those of a boy standing by the entrance.

The boy's hair was short and as dark as onyx, contrasting starkly with a prominent scar that traced from his lip up to his cheekbone. It gave him a fierce, almost intimidating look.

As the boy walked towards them, his presence commanded a peculiar respect from the regular patrons.

The man chuckled awkwardly, realizing he was in the path of the boy's approach. "Oh, excuse me," he muttered as the boy reached the bar and said in a firm, clear voice, "You're in my seat."

The man, recognizing the authority in the boy's tone, quickly apologized and moved aside. "Of course, sorry about that," he said, stepping away without another word.

The woman watched this interaction with a raised eyebrow, intrigued by the boy's

...assertiveness. He took the seat next to her, and without a word to the bartender, a drink was promptly placed before him—apparently, his usual order.

.

.

.

As the bar slowly returned to its usual buzz of activity, the woman turned her attention back to her drink, now on her fifth, just as the boy was.

Curiosity piqued, she broke her silence, turning to him. "I've noticed you don't vary your choice," she commented, her voice cool but laced with genuine curiosity. "Always the same drink. There must be a story there."

The boy looked at her, his scar pulling slightly as he smirked. "I guess you could say, it's the one constant in a city that's always changing. Why mess with a good thing?" he replied, his tone easy and smooth.

Her interest deepened, her eyes locked on his as she took another sip, letting the sharp, citrusy taste of her drink mingle down her throat. However a drop managed to miss her mouth, as it slowly rolled down her sharp chin.

Before it fell however, she managed to catch the drop with her thumb and gave it a lick as she hummed in satisfaction.

As their glasses clinked lightly, the shimmer of ice reflecting the bar's dim lights, Quinn's observant gaze found Salith's left hand.

He paused, then asked nonchalantly, "Why would a married woman be sitting all alone at a bar? Your husband must be somewhere worrying."

She looked momentarily surprised, her sea-green eyes widening as she asked, "How did you know I was married?"

Quinn smiled, a hint of nonchalance in his smile. "Well, there are a few tell-tale signs. First, the faint indentation on your ring finger suggests you typically wear a ring there, one you've recently removed. Secondly, you've glanced at your phone several times, checking it but not responding—perhaps waiting for a specific someone's call. And lastly, your choice of drink—a French 75—is traditionally a celebratory drink, perhaps of a past celebration?"

With a light laugh, Salith shook her head, amused. "My, aren't we a little Sherlock Holmes?"

Quinn chuckled, taking a sip of his drink, his scar stretching slightly with the motion. "Not at all. I just pay more attention than most."

Her expression softened to a melancholic gaze as she rubbed the naked finger, the ghost of her wedding band still haunting her skin. "It's a long and complicated story," she sighed, "something I'd rather not dive into with a stranger."

He nodded thoughtfully, then offered a gentle smile. "But all friends were strangers once." He extended his hand. "Quinn."

She paused, a smile curving her lips as she tucked a stray braid behind her ear, revealing the delicate line of her jaw. "Salith," she replied, her voice carrying a unique melody that matched the uniqueness of her name.

Their conversation deepened, each round of drinks peeling back a layer of their respective facades.

As they reached their 14th drink, the bartender announced last call.

Quinn glanced around the nearly empty bar before turning back to Salith. "I really needed this," he admitted, his voice tinged with a rare sincerity. "It was a pleasure talking to you."

She nodded, a subtle flicker of reluctance in her eyes. "Thank you, Quinn. I... I didn't realize how much I needed a little companionship." Her voice trailed off, hesitating as if battling the urge to reveal more or to hold back.

Sensing her internal struggle, Quinn leaned in slightly, his tone warm and inviting. "Would you like to continue this at the park? It's a nice night for a walk."

Salith considered for a moment, then a playful smile danced across her lips. "As long as you escort a lady home safely afterward. I have a 2 AM curfew, after all," she joked.

Quinn laughed, a genuine sound that filled the space between them. He offered his arm, which she took gracefully.

Together, they stepped out of the Velveteen Room into the warm night, the city lights shining in the background.