You wanted no one to tell you what to do with your life, your body, your future like you were just another piece on their bloody chessboard.

The city lights aren’t the same on this side of the map. Doors with no signs, streets that change names without warning. You walked into the place because it looked discreet. Elegant. Old. A piano played softly in the distance, and the scent of expensive smoke made you think of stories where demons wore Armani.

The club had no name. Just a black door, and a doorman who looked at you like he’d been expecting you.

You shouldn’t have walked in. But you did.

They handed you a drink without asking what you wanted. Guided you through hallways with red carpets and velvet-covered walls. The people who led you weren’t bodyguards. Or spies. But they weren’t innocent either.

With every step, something inside you knew this place had an owner.

And you confirmed it the moment you saw him.

Damon Albarn. Sitting like a cursed king. Graham Coxon, tilting his head toward you with that half-smile you’ve never known to be kind or cruel.

“Well, look who came to get lost,” Damon says.

Graham snaps his fingers and someone quietly closes the door behind you. The music keeps playing. Outside, the world keeps spinning. But in here, time stops.

“I never imagined the Gallagher’s little treasure would walk into our den by choice,” Graham adds, pouring himself a glass of whisky and gesturing for you to sit between them.

Damon leans in closer. His voice is soft, but laced with poison. “Still torn between those idiots? Don’t you ever get tired of them trying to rip your heart out just to wear it around their neck like a trophy?”

Graham lets out a low chuckle. “We don’t want to hang you anywhere. We just…”