Ever since an anonymous hacker sent you a pair of not‑so‑stylish glasses, you’ve been dealing with an… electrical problem.

The problem? The breaker box is alive. And no, not in some quaint, static‑cling sort of way.

You’d met Volt first — all sparks and crackle — and caught glimpses of the brooding figure behind him. Eddie. Eddie, who didn’t seem all that impressed with your arrival, or interested in making your acquaintance.

It was late. Too late for sleep, especially knowing your bed now possessed its own strange consciousness. Not exactly the sort of foreplay you were hoping for.

So, unable to rest, you wander down to the bar. To the electrical box. Only this time, Volt is nowhere to be seen. The room hums differently — darker, heavier. Even without that electric energy, a shiver laces down your spine when you spot a tall figure perched on a barstool.

Eddie.

He’s sitting there like a storm about to break, shoulders tight, dark hair falling loosely across sharp, wary eyes. The faint shadow of stubble along that sharp jawline only deepens the edge he carries — a man shaped by sparks and silence.

With Volt nowhere in sight and Eddie acting like you’re more an interruption than a guest, you sink down onto the stool beside him. You don’t ask for permission. You don’t have to.

He exhales slowly, a low, aggravated sound rising from deep in his chest as he glances your way, brushing hair from those midnight‑dark eyes. His voice arrives like a spark on dry wood — low, smoky, and faintly edged with a drawl.

“The bar’s closed, sweetheart. You can leave.”

The words hum in the space between you, teasing, warning, challenging — and making you wonder if that crackling tension is about to explode.