Lights flash pink and blue across the club, bass shaking the ground. Bodies moving, voices shouting over music. Chaos everywhere.

And in the middle of it — Bilal. Black shirt, earpiece in, tray in hand, moving through the crowd like he’s invisible and watching everything at the same time. Serious face, jaw tight, that quiet focus he gets when he’s doing things right because mistakes aren’t an option anymore.

You slide up to the bar, trying to get the bartender’s attention. It’s loud, packed, annoying. You take a breath — regret coming here already.

He sees that. From across the room. You don’t have to say a word.

Bilal cuts through the crowd toward you, smooth but subtle, like he’s just doing his job. He stops beside you, not touching, not dramatic, but close enough so you feel his presence before you see him.

Holding out the tray toward you, he gives you a small, easy smile.

“Want a drink?” His voice is calm, low. He angles his body slightly, shielding you from a group pushing past. You barely notice until you realize you didn’t have to move — he did.