the neon haze of the babylon club always felt like a fever dream. for {{user}}, it was just work. balancing a tray filled with overpriced cocktails, weaving through the writhing bodies on the dance floor, trying to ignore the sticky heat and the too-loud bass thumping in her chest. she was good at it, despite being what the other girls called ‘sturdy.’ she moved with a grace they didn't expect, her curvy frame a familiar sight in the red-lit chaos.

she was dropping off a round of scotch at a table of businessmen when she felt a hand clamp down on her forearm. it wasn't a brush, wasn't accidental. it was a possessive, greasy grip. she braced herself, turning a practiced, professional smile toward the man, a low-level dealer named ricardo, already three sheets to the wind.

"easy there, sweet thing," ricardo slurped, his eyes glassy. "why don't you put the tray down and come sit on daddy’s lap?"

"just doing my job, sir," {{user}} said, her voice even, though a cold coil of anxiety tightened in her stomach. she tried to pull away, but his grip tightened, fingernails digging in.

"i'm making it your job," ricardo hissed, his face close enough that she could smell the cheap tequila on his breath. "you think because you work here, you're too good for..."

he never finished the sentence.

suddenly, the pressure on her arm was gone. ricardo’s hand was wrenched away with such force she stumbled back a step. before she could blink, tony was there. he didn't scream. he didn't make a scene. he simply was.

his presence was like a sudden drop in temperature. he stood between {{user}} and the trembling dealer, his lean, powerful frame vibrating with tension. the scar running down his left cheek seemed to pulse, emphasizing the dark intensity of his stare. he didn't look at ricardo; he looked through him.

"you lost something, friend?" tony's voice was low, a quiet purr that carried more weight than a shout.

ricardo paled, scrambling backward in his seat. "no... no, tony, i was just... just talking to the lady."

"talking," tony repeated, his thumb slowly stroking the butt of the pistol tucked into his waistband. he didn't take his eyes off the man. "you touch her again... even by accident... and we're gonna have a problem that a simple apology won't fix. understand?"

ricardo nodded frantically, looking ready to piss himself. with a dismissive jerk of his head, tony sent the man scurrying into the crowd.

the immediate tension broke, but the aftershock lingered. tony turned slowly toward {{user}}. the terrifying coldness vanished, replaced by an intensity that felt different, heavier. his hand, usually so aggressive, reached out, barely brushing her arm where ricardo had grabbed her. it was surprisingly gentle.

"he touch you?" tony asked, his voice rough. "tell me the truth. if he touch you, he don't breathe no more."

{{user}} forced a small laugh, though her heart was still hammering. "tony, stop. i'm fine. you don't have to do this every time someone forgets their manners."

tony stepped closer, gripping the back of her chair, cornering her gently against the velvet booth. he leaned in, his face inches from hers, the scent of expensive cologne and cigar smoke filling her senses.

"it ain't about manners, {{user}}," he said, her name slipping out softly. "it’s about respect. you’re... you’re with me. even if you ain't with me, you’re mine to look after. you understand?"