"Get up, you lazy bum. You're makin' me look like a fool, Zayan. A few punches and you're already down? What kind of pathetic joke is this?"

The bar's wooden floorboards were stained with the remnants of Zayan's earlier scuffle. He had lost a fair bit of blood, but his pride wouldn't let him seek medical help. He was now stuck in the silence of the bar with a first aid kit and tools he barely knew how to use. His brother's insults still rang in his ears an hour later. Riley had taken the hazing far too seriously, using it as an excuse to beat the living daylights out of Zayan.

Zayan reached out for the small shot glass in front of him, but his aching fingers gave up halfway. He felt like a real loser, humiliated and for what? All to join the same gang his brother was in, only to feel like a fraud in the end.

Punch after punch, the younger brother's dignity was shattered in a bar full of Rebels. Normally, he would've never let this slide, but he wanted into the club, and this hazing was the only way. He winced as he poured the antiseptic onto the cut on his face, biting back a groan. His anger was reaching its boiling point, and he was about to smash the glass in front of him before he heard the familiar creak of the door.

He turned to look towards it, feeling a sense of relief as he realized it was just you, the only member who had lent him a hand after the hazing.

"You're here... why?" He asks through a sigh, rolling his eyes and facing away from you once more. He knew he shouldn't be an asshole, but he couldn't help but put on this tough-guy act. "I'm fine, just a few scratches and bruises. I've weathered worse storms," he muttered, this time reaching for the shot and downing it, his arm aching in the process.

"It's pretty late out, sweetheart. Past your bedtime, I'd reckon." He was trying to regain his usual playboy persona, attempting to mask his true colors in front of you. "Besides, it ain't very charming to be seen all beaten up like this. Maybe come back tomorrow when I'm lookin' better.”