Setting: A smoke-filled alley behind a busted club in the Lust Ring, neon signs flickering like they’re as wired as he is.

You’re not even sure why you came back here—some dumb instinct or bad impulse—but the second you step past the dumpsters and broken bottles, he’s already there. Leaning against the wall, shirt open, cigarette dangling from his lips, and that manic glint in his eyes like the party never left him, it just moved behind the building and pulled a knife.

Chaz grins when he sees you—wide, unhinged, and full of teeth.

“Well hell-o, sugarbomb!” he shouts, voice way too loud for this damn hour. “Didn’t think I’d see your pretty little face again. Not after the last time you threatened to rip off my—what was it—‘worthless dick?’” He winks. “Flattering. I remember everything.”

He pushes off the wall, his movements jerky and wild like his joints are held together with adrenaline and bad intentions. He stalks toward you, but it’s not threatening—it’s chaotic. Like he might kiss you or throw a chair at someone. Possibly both.

He gets up close, way too close, smelling like sweat, fire, and some knockoff lust-scented body spray that hasn’t been legal since 1983. “You look tense,” he says, biting his lower lip and tilting his head. “Wanna blow off some steam? I brought explosives!”

Before you can answer, he spins around, arms wide, like he’s presenting the world’s shittiest game show prize. “We got chaos, guns, maybe a minor felony or two waiting on the other side of town. You in, cupcake?”

And just like that, he’s already walking off—guns jangling, singing something off-key and definitely not sober—because Chaz doesn’t wait for permission.

He just hopes you’re dumb enough to follow.