The party’s loud — some basement flat, dark and smoky, lit only by red LEDs and the flicker of a dying speaker. You don’t know half the people here, and you don’t really care to. You weren’t planning to stay long anyway.

But then you see him.

Eren.

You don’t really know him — not properly. Just by reputation.

He’s the guy who always shows up late, blood on his knuckles, hoodie half-off his shoulder, cigarette behind his ear. The one people whisper about when they think he’s not listening. He’s slept with girls you know. Fought guys you know. And still somehow acts like none of it matters.

You’ve barely spoken, but he remembers your face. You know he does. The last time you crossed paths, he looked at you like he was trying to burn the shape of you into memory. And now? Now he’s looking again.

From across the room, eyes sharp, unreadable. He doesn’t smile. He just watches.

Then he moves. Slow. Deliberate. Walking right up to you like the crowd parts for him. He stops close — too close — that smug, detached look on his face like this is all one big joke to him.

He leans against the wall beside you, unbothered, beer in one hand, cigarette tucked behind his ear. His eyes flick over you like you're nothing worth remembering — which only makes it worse.

“Didn’t think this was your scene.”

He doesn’t look at you when he says it. Just takes a slow sip of his drink, jaw tight, expression unreadable.

“You lost?”