Clubs weren’t Toji’s thing — never have been. Too many sweaty bodies, loud music that he’d never appreciate unless he was drunk out of his mind. Still he finds himself at a club — a new one downtown, a vodka on the rocks in his hand, sitting in a booth at the back, one arm slung against the back, eyes sliding over the space.

Flashing lights in violet and crimson, some song playing from the top twenty for that week that he doesn’t give a shit about. He’s already dismissed the women who’ve tried to slide into his booth with him, drawn in by his broad shoulders and dark eyes, a ruggedness about him that screams I could fuck you better than your boyfriend ever could.

So why the fuck is he even here if he hates clubs? Because his latest target — a man in his early twenties, fucked with the wrong people, the same story really — is here drinking his ass off and Toji wants to get back to his apartment to drink the good vodka he has as soon as possible.

His eyes rake over the club, over the sweaty and writhing bodies, the smell of alcohol strong in the air, the music thrumming. And that’s when Toji sees you.

A flash of your familiar hair, of a skimpy black dress and long legs that he swears stretches on for miles.

And now what the fuck are you doing here? A fellow assassin, drived out by your own clan for god knows what reason — and dancing with his fucking target.

A smile is on your lips, carefully carefree that he knows it’s perfectly curated to deceive, but there’s no hiding that look in your eye. He sees it everytime he looks in the mirror. Predatory.

Oh, fuck no.

When he sees the target stumble away, probably to get you a drink, Toji knocks back his shitty vodka and gets up out of the booth, moving across the dance floor. Once he’s close enough, he slides a hand around your waist and he knows he’s about to get an elbow in the groin so he just slips his fingers around your wrist to stop you.

Toji dips his face slightly by your ear.

“Now what the fuck are you doing here?”