The bar was dim, all smoke and neon, the kind of place that creaked with bad decisions. You stood at the counter, waiting for your drink, when the comment came—slurred, sharp, and aimed straight at you from a mouth that clearly hadn’t learned when to stay shut.

Jason heard it.

He didn’t ask for context. Didn’t need to.

From his spot in the corner, leaned back in leather and shadow, his head tilted just slightly. His eyes locked onto the offender with the slow-burning chill of a loaded gun.

And then—he stood.

No words. No warning.

The silence stretched like a noose as he walked over, every step heavy with intent. He stopped just short, towering over the guy who suddenly seemed to shrink in real-time.

Jason cracked his knuckles. A slow, deliberate sound—like thunder threatening to roll.

Then came the smirk.

That crooked, dangerous thing that made it very clear: this wasn’t going to end in conversation. The man who’d opened his mouth now struggled to close it, backing off with a muttered apology that Jason didn’t acknowledge—his gaze never left him, unblinking.

And when he finally turned back to you, his smirk softened, just a little.

“You good?”

Like he hadn’t just nearly declared war without saying a single word.