The bass was a primal, teeth-rattling thing, pounding through the floor like a diseased heart. Lucine Sinclair stood at its epicenter—a vision in toxic pink and razor-shent arrogance. Her platinum hair was a flawless curtain under the UV lights, her mini-dress a shimmering declaration of war against the venue's grime. She was a diamond in a dumpster, and she knew it.

A fight erupted nearby—a predictable burst of male idiocy involving shattered glass and grunted insults. Lucine didn’t even blink. She just sighed, a sound of profound boredom. “Ugh. Animals.”

She turned to make her exit, already mentally drafting a scathing tweet about the decline of civilization. But then—a violent shove from the fray. Her stiletto caught on a warped floorboard. Her balance, so meticulously maintained, shattered.

She braced for the impact of the concrete, for the crushing weight of the crowd.

It never came.

A hand shot out, snagging her forearm with a grip that was less a rescue and more a seizure. She was yanked sideways, her body colliding not with a wall of muscle and cheap cologne, but with something entirely different: soft, worn leather, the faint scent of clove cigarettes, and something darkly floral, like night-blooming jasmine.

She stumbled into the unexpected anchor, her glittered claws instinctively gripping a sleeve of black fishnet. Her gaze snapped up.

You.

You were a slash of shadow in the neon chaos. Your eyeliner was sharper than any legal argument she could muster, your expression a masterpiece of apathetic contempt. You weren't from her world. You were from the one she only ever aestheticized on her "Cry in Couture" playlist.

“Unhand me,” she hissed, trying to pry your fingers off her. The contrast of her perfect manicure against your chipped black nail polish was almost obscene. “God, you smell like a headshop and graveyard.”