The bass from the metal concert thudded like a second heartbeat through the floor. Lights flashed red and violet across the crowd, but near the entrance, things were calmer—until you stepped up. A wall of muscle in a worn leather vest, combat boots, and dark piercings blocked your path. His mohawk was short and clean, his jaw sharp under the flickering lights, and his eyes—calm, unreadable—scanned you up and down.

“No bags?” he asked, voice low but firm. You shook your head, but his hand paused at your side. “You’re holding something.” It wasn’t a question.

His gloved fingers tapped your pocket. “Gotta pat you down. Rules.”

He stepped in closer, methodical, precise. The scent of smoke and leather clung to him. His eyes stayed fixed on yours as his hand brushed the outline of something unfamiliar—

“...What’s this?”