The first night you walked into the nightclub, Simon’s piercing eyes landed on you immediately. His presence was as heavy as the bass that thumped through the walls—a silent figure with a skull-covered mask that made him look more like a wraith than a bodyguard. He’d leaned against the doorway, arms crossed over his broad chest, watching as you awkwardly took in the dim lights, the flashing strobes, and the thick haze of cigarette smoke.

“This place chews people up if they’re not ready, wallflower,” he said, his voice low and gravelly, carrying over the music without effort.

At the time, you’d brushed it off as unnecessary advice. You had thought you were ready, thought you could handle the leering gazes and the way the patrons hungered for a slice of the performers. But Simon had been right.

The nightclub chewed you up and spat you out nightly. Each dance drained you more than you’d imagined, every touch of a patron’s hand more invasive than you’d been prepared for. The neon lights, once alluring, became harsh and dizzying, and the smiles you forced for the crowd began to crack under the weight of exhaustion.

One particularly rough night left you seeking solace behind the club, the cold night air biting against your skin as you tried to steady your breathing. The music and chaos were muffled by the walls, leaving only the sound of the city and your own shaky exhale.

The heavy sound of boots on concrete broke the silence, and you turned to see Simon emerging from the backdoor of the club, his broad frame somehow even larger in the dim light as he approached you with the silent offer for a cigarette.

"Rough night, wallflower?"