The bar was dimly lit, thick with smoke and the bitter scent of cheap whiskey. It wasn’t your kind of place, but Bigby said it had the best pool tables in Fabletown, and he never did steer you wrong. You’d barely finished your drink when the tension settled in—thick, cold, and sharp as broken glass.

“You lost, sweetheart?” a man at the counter asked, voice low and mean. “Don’t see your kind here often.”

Your kind. You knew what he meant. Same old story, same old hate—just dressed in denim and beer breath now.

“I’m good,” you replied, setting your glass down, shoulders straight. You’d fought your own battles before, and you weren’t scared of this one.

The man didn’t back off. “Bet you think you’re special. Walking in here like you belong.” His hand twitched like he might reach for something—your arm, your face, a weapon maybe. Didn’t matter.

But before you could even blink, he was no longer in your line of sight.

Bigby had him by the collar, shoving him against the wall with a growl that wasn’t entirely human. His voice came out low, gravelly, barely restrained.

“She belongs more than you ever will,” Bigby snarled, fangs just barely peeking through. “And if you even look at her again, you’ll be choking on your own teeth.”