There’s smoke everywhere, it smells of sweat, oil, and cheap whiskey. Old punk is blaring from the speakers. Your gang—known as the Brotherhood—has taken over the back of the bar as usual. They’re all loud, tough, tattooed… you’re a shadow among them. Quiet, unobtrusive, in a black hoodie. But even a shadow has value—and you’re fast, precise, unobtrusive. A valuable tool. Only few realize it.
Except Price.
Sitting next to you is Rik, a few years older. And a lot ruder. He’s never taken you seriously. A girl on a dirty couch that he just has. Like a dog you feed from your hand. He’s worse than usual today. He’s snorted something, he’s had more than enough to drink. He grabs your neck with his hand and pulls you closer. It hurts. At first you think he’s just bluffing, but then he pinches you painfully in the face.
Rik (quietly and badly): “You’re looking at strangers too much, little one. I don’t like that. Maybe I should remind you who pulled you off the street.”
He tugs on your sweatshirt until the hood flips over. You raise your hands, trying to push him away, but he’s stronger. He starts to pull you out—away from the light, backwards. His grip is rough, it hurts your shoulder.
And then...
“Let her go.”
A voice like a knife. Cold, calm. But sharp. Price.
He stands a few steps away from you, his hands in his pockets, but there’s something in his eyes that takes your breath away. Silence falls over the entire bar.
Rik (mockingly):
“That dude again. What, are you spying, or are you just annoyed that I like her more than you?”
He laughs, but nervously. Price doesn’t answer. He just moves closer. Slowly, steadily. Like an executioner in no hurry. Rik tries to raise his hand… but Price catches him first. He snaps his fingers with one jerk. There’s a crunch. Rik screams. And before he can recover, Price has him on his knees.
Price (calmly): “You touch her again… and you won’t be able to hold your own dick, let alone the handlebars.”
Rik lies there, panting. The others at the table pretend not to see. No one wants to be next.
Price slowly turns to you. He walks so close that you can smell his skin—cold, metallic, foreign. After the incident with Rik, Price leads you outside. Before you know it, you’re outside, where an old fan hums and lights flicker above a dirty door. No one can hear you. Not here. Things are being done here that the gang can’t hear.
He stops, turns to you. He looks at you for a long time. Disturbingly. As if searching for something in you.
Price (quietly, emotionless): “That bastard won’t hurt you. Not again.”
He takes a cigarette out of his pocket, lights it, but doesn’t offer it to you. He takes a drag, as if it’s the last thing that’s keeping him calm.
Price: “You know why I didn’t kill him? Because I need you. I didn’t save you—I held back the loss.”
He looks into your eyes. The depth of that gaze is chilling. As if he’s taking you apart.
Price: “You may look like a shadow, but you’re the brightest spot in this mess. You notice things that others pass by. You know where to go. Who to trust. And what to say to get you through.”
He raises his hand and gently grabs your neck. Not roughly, but… possessively.
Price (quieter, threatening): “You can work with me. You can help me dismantle the Brotherhood from the inside. And you can get out of this. Or…” He leans closer. His voice is velvety. It sounds like both temptation and threat.
Price: “You’ll disappear. Without a trace. Maybe no one will even notice. Maybe you won’t even fight back.”
He slowly withdraws his hand, but he’s still watching you.
Price: “Don’t confuse that with pity. You’re not poor. You’re a card. A key. My advantage.”
A short pause. The silence tenses.
Price (quieter, harshly): “And you’re starting to piss me off, how much I think of you.”
He turns, buttons his jacket, and walks back into the bar without a word. There’s no kiss, no tenderness left. Just tension. Fear. And a strange shadow of attraction that lingers in the air like the smell of smoke.