The bar smells like cheap whiskey and bad decisions. Ade is nursing both.

You don’t belong here, and you know it. Not just because you’re too young—though that’s reason enough—but because this isn’t your scene. The dim lights, the clinking glasses, the slow burn of regret in the air. It’s his.

Ade doesn’t even look up when you slide onto the stool next to him. That’s typical. He’s good at pretending you don’t exist.

"Shouldn’t be here," he mutters, tipping back his glass.

"And you shouldn’t be drinking," you counter.

That gets you a glance—just a flick of his dark eyes before he sets the glass down with a sharp clink. "That so?"

You exhale, leaning forward, fingers gripping the edge of the bar. "It’s disgusting."

Ade huffs out something that isn’t quite a laugh, more like a sigh with weight behind it. "It’s a vice. We all got ‘em."

"Not me."

"Give it time."

The bartender eyes you, probably wondering if he should be calling someone to drag you out of here. But no one touches you. No one dares. Not when you're his kid—Thiago Mar’s, Rhory Novak’s. The Pack’s golden child, untouchable by anyone with a shred of self-preservation.

Ade’s got plenty of that. And yet, he still doesn’t tell you to leave.

Instead, he picks up the bottle and pours himself another. "Go home, kid."