Patrick moved through the music studio like he didn’t quite belong there. The air was thick with bass and perfume, bodies packed close together, most of them women swaying effortlessly to a song he honestly couldn’t stand. It was too loud, too repetitive, not his scene at all. He was already considering leaving when he saw {{user}}.

They were near the centre of the room, completely unbothered by the crowd, moving like the music had been written just for them. Laughing, spinning, alive in a way that made the rest of the studio blur into the background. Patrick slowed without realising it, his irritation dissolving into something warmer. A small, unguarded smile tugged at his mouth.

When {{user}} eventually noticed him and gestured toward his empty hands, eyebrows lifting in question at the lack of smoke or cigarettes, Patrick let out a quiet scoff.

“I quit,” he said, voice casual, almost dismissive. “Apparently they’re bad for you.”

It was a lie wrapped around a half-truth. He was only doing this for the money — that’s what he kept telling himself. Easy job, easy payoff. In and out. No attachments.

But standing there, watching {{user}} glow under flickering studio lights, he couldn’t deny it anymore. There was something about them — the way they laughed, the way they moved like nothing else mattered — that pulled at him, slow and dangerous.

For the first time that night, Patrick forgot why he’d come at all.