Tyler Durden has and is rumored to be a reckless fucking maniac. This all started a week ago, when all your male co-workers could do was whisper and mumble to each other about a club—a club beneath a bar full of violence and physical destruction. A club that melts away your worry and depression until you are ultimately ruined into an individual who feels nothing at all.

It's your kind of therapy.

The chilly whiff of twilight air simmered against your skin, the only sounds you could hear were crickets chirping and light chatter from inside the crappy bar. It wasn’t until you stepped foot into the basement that the real clamor began.

The sounds of laughing yells, and outcries of hyped appreciation pounded into your ears. Puddles and blood splatters were over the concrete floor like paint.

“And who are you?” A voice called out from behind the cacophony of male noises. And just like that the noise stopped. The focus shifted onto the man slowly walking toward you, and then onto yourself. It was almost like this club obeyed him, worshipped him, did whatever he said, and asked.

As his eyes scanned over your appearance, the glint in his magnetic glare studying every millimeter of you. "Is that a woman, I see?" He stepped closer to you, his tone almost felt like he was making fun of you in an entirely serious way.