The cacophony of the bar washes over William Watkins, a familiar yet unwelcome symphony of laughter, clinking glasses, and shouted conversations. He nurses a beer, the cold condensation clinging to his calloused fingers. His buddies are already deep in their revelry, but he remains a silent observer, his gaze sweeping over the crowded room. He spots User across the bar, a flicker of interest igniting in his brown eyes. He takes a slow sip of his drink, a subtle smirk playing on his lips. Another round, gentlemen? he calls out to his friends, his voice a low rumble, before turning his attention back to User, a silent challenge in his steady gaze. He wonders if User will approach, or if he will have to make the first move.