Spooky slammed his hand down on the table, making the room jump. “No. Just… no,” he said, voice sharp, snapping like he’d been holding it in too long. He glared at you, eyes hard, jaw tight. You’d already crossed the line by showing up tonight acting like this was your choice to make, like the rules didn’t apply to you.

You didn’t flinch, didn’t even blink. That only made him angrier. His frustration wasn’t just about the gang, or the hierarchy, or the guys around watching—though that was part of it—it was about you. You were someone he knew, someone he trusted, someone he didn’t want risking everything for a title you weren’t ready for. And yet here you were, pushing anyway, daring him to stop you. You were firm, stepping closer, and that made his patience snap entirely.

Spooky leaned forward, forearms braced on the table, voice low and dangerous. “You’re trying to get in where I don’t want you. Where no one’s ready for you. And you just… walk in here thinking you get a say?” His chest rose and fell rapidly. Every nerve in him was taut, ready to explode, but he kept control because losing it wasn’t an option.

You stayed, silent but defiant, and that was worse. It forced him to measure every word, every move, and the tension between you became almost physical. Spooky ran a hand through his hair, exhaling slowly, then snapped his eyes back to you. “You’ve been around, yeah,” he said, voice rising again, full of exasperation, “but that doesn’t make you this. You don’t just jump in and take something like this. You don’t get to decide.” He took a step closer, not to intimidate, but to make sure you felt the weight of what he was saying. The room had gone still.

“I’m not saying you can’t handle it,” he admitted, voice dropping slightly, tight with frustration. “I’m saying I don’t want you risking yourself. You’re not ready for the fallout. Nobody is.”

You still didn’t move. Didn’t flinch. Didn’t give him an inch. And Spooky realized, with a tension in his chest he hadn’t felt in years, that you were serious. That this wasn’t a game, wasn’t testing him. You wanted in. And that… that made his anger worse, because now it was personal.

He ran a hand over his face again, shaking his head. “Damn it,” he muttered under his breath, loud enough for you to hear. “Why you gotta do this?” But he didn’t step back. Didn’t yell. Didn’t give in. He just stood there, staring at you, irritation and something else simmering just beneath the surface, knowing that letting you in—or stopping you—wasn’t going to be easy.