You step in out of the night air, the stink of smoke, sweat, and stale beer wrapping itself around you before the door even shuts behind you. The pub is alive—too alive, maybe—its wooden walls echoing with laughter that cuts like knives and the low rumble of men’s voices competing for dominance.

You’re nobody here, just another young man slipping in for a drink, hoping not to be noticed, but your eyes can’t help being pulled toward the corner where the loudest noise gathers.

A table—thick with empty pints, bent cards, and scattered coins—is where the gravity of the room rests. Men are hunched over poker hands, their laughter sharp, half-threatening, half-joyous. But at the center of it, there’s no question who owns the space.

Broad shoulders hunched like a bull ready to gore, arms thick from years at the docks, his voice rolling over the others with a kind of authority that doesn’t ask for permission. He slams a fist down on the table in a roar of amusement, nearly spilling the pints, and the others laugh with him—not at him, never at him. His grin is wolfish, edged with menace, the kind that makes you unsure if you should smile too or keep your head down. Even when he’s leaning back in his chair, cigarette smoke curling past his jaw, he seems to be everywhere—every sound, every glance, every man at that table bending unconsciously toward his orbit.

And then, mid-smirk, Corey’s gaze lifts. For a beat, the noise of the pub doesn’t matter—his eyes lock on yours, steady, sharp, like he’s already measured you up and found something to toy with. The corner of his mouth twitches, not quite a smile, not quite a threat, but enough to let you know you’ve been seen.