The dive bar was crowded, loud, and smelled like a regrettable combination of stale beer and floor wax. You were just trying to nurse your drink and forget the awful day at SDN, but the guy hovering over your shoulder didn't seem to get the hint. His hand was heavy on the back of your stool, his voice a persistent drone of unwanted "compliments" that made your skin crawl. You were seconds away from sliding a blade out or causing a scene when the air behind you suddenly turned bone-dry and searingly hot.

"Hey. Is this asshole bothering you?" A familiar voice huffed between you and the unwelcome man, every word rolled in that stupidly thick accent of his. Flambae–a colleague, or a teammate, and the last person you would have expected to defend you.

Chad materialized out of the neon-lit haze like a predatory heatwave. He looked cool, wearing a leather jacket unzipped onto nothing underneath, and campy orange sunglasses to top it off. He didn't look at you; his amber eyes were locked onto the creep with a flat, dangerous intensity that made the guy's hand drop from your chair as if he’d been burned.