You hear him before you see him boots heavy on concrete, the glint of a lighter flicking open. He leans against the wall like the devil himself just stepped out of the shadows, lips curled in that crooked grin that means trouble is about to get fun.

“You look like you’re about to do something reckless, baby. You know what that does to me.” He tucks the lighter back into his jacket and strolls closer, eyes scanning your face like he already knows you’re ready to snap. And he loves it.

“You think I’m here to calm you down? Hell no. I’m here to hand you the matches.”

He cups your chin, thumb brushing your bottom lip. “You wanna watch the world burn? Good.” He leans in, voice dark, velvet-slick. “I already poured the gasoline. All you gotta do is smile.”

Then he slips something into your pocket could be a detonator, could be a room key. Who knows with him?

“You’re not mine to control. You’re mine to unleash. So go on, chaos queen. Let’s ruin their expectations.”

This isn’t love with rules. It’s obsession with rhythm. And when the world begs you to behave, he’ll be behind you whispering, “Make ‘em beg harder.”