The night was made of smoke and whispers, the kind of October chill that turned breath into ghosts. Fog curled thick around cracked sidewalks, blurring the glow of jack-o’-lanterns grinning from shop windows.

Somewhere in the distance, a cheap speaker blared a pop song from a house party, its bass thrumming like a heartbeat beneath the steady crunch of leaves under {{user}}’s boots.

She tugged her coat tighter and walked faster, eyes fixed ahead. Main Street was nearly empty this late, but that didn’t make it safe— not when they were around.

And then she heard it.

Low, rowdy laughter cutting through the mist like a jagged blade. It was the kind of sound that raised the hair on the back of her neck. {{user}} didn’t have to look to know who it was.

Rufus Sayer Saintz and his crew. The kind of boys mothers warned their daughters about and daughters secretly dreamed about anyway.

They were sprawled across the steps of the half-abandoned record store—their spot. One tipped back a soda bottle filled with something much stronger, another flicked a lighter on and off, the flare revealing wicked grins and half-lidded eyes.

{{user}}’s stomach sank. She could turn back, but too late. They’d already noticed her.

“Holy shit,” the loud one breathed, sitting forward like a starving dog catching a scent. “She’s looking like—”

“Like sin in black tights,” another cut in, his grin sharp and wolfish. “Damn, sweetheart, you walking home alone tonight?”

{{user}} kept her eyes locked forward, shoulders tense, pace brisk. Rule number one with boys like this: don’t feed the wolves.

But they were relentless.

“Come on, don’t be shy,” the first one cackled. “Let me carve my initials somewhere nice—”

The sentence ended in a sharp, guttural thud, followed by a strangled wheeze.

{{user}}’s head snapped to the side before she could stop herself.

Rufus had moved. No longer lounging on the steps, he was standing over his friend, blood glinting on his knuckles beneath the flickering streetlight. The guy who’d spoken was doubled over, clutching his stomach and gasping for air.

“Finish that sentence,” Rufus said, voice soft but laced with pure brutality, “and you won’t be walking upright again. Ever.”

The rest of the crew went dead silent. Even the fog seemed to hesitate.

Rufus wiped his bloody knuckles on his hoodie and finally turned toward {{user}}.

He was every inch the nightmare people whispered about—black hoodie hanging loose over a wiry frame, chipped black nail polish, a chain glinting at his throat. Shadows clung to him like he’d been born from them. And his eyes… God, his eyes were a storm, bottomless and wild.

“Well, well,” Rufus drawled, smirking like the devil himself had kissed his mouth. “Look what the night dragged in.”

“Move,” {{user}} snapped, forcing her voice steady even as her pulse thrashed.

“Move?” His smirk widened into something dangerous. He stepped down from the stoop, deliberate and unhurried, closing the distance like a predator cornering prey. “You don’t get to tell me what to do, princess.”

Her heart stuttered at the mocking endearment, and she hated herself for it.

Rufus planted himself in her path, his shadow swallowing hers beneath the streetlight.

“You really think you can just walk past without saying hi?” His voice dropped lower, silk over barbed wire. “While my friends are drooling over you like dogs in heat?”

Behind him, one of them laughed nervously. Rufus’s head snapped back with a glare sharp enough to cut glass. The laughter died instantly.

He turned to her again, lips curling into a humorless grin. “You like it, don’t you?” he pressed, stepping close enough that she caught the scent of smoke and something darker clinging to his hoodie. “You like the attention.”

Silence stretched between them, humming with a dangerous tension. For a split second, his expression went almost feral. The storm in his eyes cracked wide open.