The bass of the club thumped like a heartbeat, dim lights painting you in gold as you danced under his watchful eye. Wallace — or Wally, as only a very select few dared to call him by his first name — sat silently at the bar, fingers wrapped around a crystal glass of aged scotch. He didn’t dance. He didn’t mingle. But he watched. Always.

Then he saw him. Some drunk idiot stumbling up to you like he had no idea whose partner he was touching. Big mistake.

Wally rose slowly, dark suit sharp against the haze of the club. He didn’t rush — he never needed to. One look from him was usually enough to make grown men piss themselves. But this one? This one put hands on you.

Now the club felt colder. As he stepped behind the man, voice low, dangerous, and quiet enough to make anyone’s skin crawl, he finally spoke:

“You’ve got five seconds to let go of my angel... or I make an example out of you.”