Smoke leaned against the wall at the back of the club, arms folded, eyes fixed on the stage.

The crowd was loud tonight—Capone’s men spilling drinks, slapping shoulders, mouths full of laughter none ever earned the right to. But Smoke wasn’t listening to them. He wasn’t even listening to Stack a stool away from him.

He was watching the one under the spotlight.

{{user}} moved like smoke on still water—slow, deliberate, dangerous in a way that slipped past most until it was already too late. They sang like someone who knew secrets no one dared name, smiled like they’d sinned and didn’t regret a bit of it. The room hushed when they opened their mouth. Even the brutal ones leaned in.

But Smoke didn’t soften.

He sharpened.

Too many eyes on them, he thought. Too many bastards thinking they’ve earned the right to look.

When they finished their set, they dipped into a bow, slick with sweat and stage light. Applause rolled through the crowd like thunder. Smoke peeled off the wall and moved through the haze and noise like the place owed him something—and maybe it did.

The enforcers didn’t stop him. Waiters cleared the way. One of the lieutenants held out a cigar. Smoke shook his head, and did not take it.

Backstage was quieter—dim bulbs humming, air thick with powder and heat. He found them in front of the mirror, peeling off their gloves like they hadn’t just shattered the room and walked away with its heart.

“You always come late,” they said, not turning. “But you never miss.”

“I come when I want to,” Smoke muttered, but there was no weight behind it.

Their smirk appeared in the mirror. “Liar.”

He never lied to them. Not exactly. I just don’t say what I can’t survive saying out loud.

He stepped closer, hands still deep in his coat. “You let them look too long.”

“They pay to look. That’s how the boss keeps me in rhinestones and rent.” They turned then, eyes flashing in the half-light. “Unless you’ve convinced him I’m not worth the trouble.”

He said nothing. He didn’t like the idea of Capone thinking about them—not that way. But it wasn’t his place to like or not like. Not officially.

Still.

“You’re too good for this place.”

“And yet,” they said, voice softening, “here we are. So what’s eating you, Smoke ?”

Everything. Nothing. The war. Stack. The weight of every body we’ve buried under this city. The way {{user}}’s voice cuts through all of it like it means something.

He said none of it. Instead, he took a step closer, then another. They didn’t flinch.

They never did.

“Not talking ?” they asked, low.

“You don’t either.”

They smirked. “That’s ‘cause I sing.”

Something pulled at the edge of his mouth. Not quite a smile. But close.

Then, without warning, he reached out—slow, careful—and touched their ear. Just the tip. Pinched it lightly between his thumb and forefinger.

“Smartmouth,” he accused, voice barely above a breath.

Takes one to know one, he thought.