Tales from Llad

By Lladology

There are men who live quietly. And then there’s Llad —The man you notice just before the moment matters. Every week, we open his journal. A collection of encounters, escapes, and ethical standoffs —Where the line between style and substance is drawn with a straight razor. These aren’t just stories.They’re a code.

The Cologne Confession

It was the kind of bar you don't find unless you're meant to.No sign on the door, just a flicker of candlelight behind smoked glass and the low hum of jazz bleeding into Lisbon’s midnight air. I wasn’t there for the music.

She’d left it behind three nights ago — crystal cut, corked in brass, her name barely etched on the bottom.A bottle of something unreleased. Untraceable.One spritz on my wrist and I understood why she ran.

I found her at the back table, same dress, different company. He looked like a man who never lost — and didn’t know how to handle it when he did.I set the bottle on the table between their drinks.

She stared at it like it might explode.

“Not mine anymore,” she said.“Wasn’t mine to keep,” I replied.He looked confused. Good.

I didn’t stay long. I never do.

Back outside, I watched the city breathe while the scent lingered — silent, sharp, unforgettable.

Some men chase a scent.I return it.