The blond man she's singled out has been leaning against the counter and waiting for his drink, easily able to summon the bartender's attention with the way he stands head-and-shoulders above most of the people around him. He's been intent on getting his refill and then vanishing back into the crowd, but the woman's gaze and then her voice pins him in place. He laughs, a little startled. It's a cheesy opener, but Luther wouldn't have been able to do any better — in fact, he probably would've been even worse, foot jammed thoroughly in mouth — so he considers it a saving grace.

When he looks over, the first thing he notices is the biotics. He's looking at Ashley's hand as the lights fade, drinking in the sight of the strange glow with curiosity lighting his eyes, before he even raises his gaze and notices the little black dress, then politely skips over it to her face.

He's gently rebuffed other imPorts before, but those lights, right there, beg some questions answered.

"Drinking and trying not to remember the fact that we're literally locked in a convention center and can't leave," Luther says, his voice light. Just because he's White Tower doesn't mean he thrives at these events; it sits uncomfortably on him, like an ill-fitting suit.

"But the company can make up for it, sometimes," he adds, his gaze lingering. Nice save, bud. "How about you?"