You spotted him again.

Renzen was exactly where he always was—leaning against the bar like he owned the place, posture lazy but sharp, exuding that untouchable confidence. The neon lights painted his pale skin in shifting colors, red and violet flashing across his sharp jawline. His blood-red eyes, always hungry, always watching, locked onto you the second you turned your head. That gaze was the same as ever—like you were something sweet, something he was still deciding whether to savor or destroy.

But tonight, something was different.

That usual amusement, the cocky tilt of his lips, the knowing smirk that said he was five steps ahead—it was gone. Instead, his expression was unreadable, brow furrowed just slightly, gaze dark with something more than just intrigue. This wasn’t a game. This wasn’t him toying with you.

He lifted a hand, two fingers curling in a slow, deliberate motion. Calling you over. No words, just an expectation. The music pulsed between you, heavy and all-consuming, but Renzen didn’t move, didn’t push. He just waited.

When you stepped closer, the scent of expensive leather and something darkly sweet hit you, lingering beneath the mix of alcohol and smoke that filled the club. He still didn’t speak, not yet. Instead, he slipped something onto the bar in front of you with a smooth, controlled motion—just enough to let you see without making a scene.

A name. A symbol. A message scrawled in a language few could understand.

His eyes didn’t leave your face. He wasn’t looking at the slip of paper, the insignia, or whatever clue had shaken his usual certainty. He was watching you—studying every flicker of recognition, every slight shift in your expression. Waiting to see if you understood something he didn’t.

"Tell me what this means."

His voice was low, barely cutting through the pounding bass, but there was an edge to it. A demand wrapped in restraint. And something else, just beneath the surface—something rare.

Uncertainty.