The lights from the club flashed in erratic bursts, a kaleidoscope of neon blues and reds. The music thumped loudly, the bass vibrating through his shoes and settling deep in his chest. It was far too warm for his liking, bodies pressed too close, the heat clinging. But Dominique didn’t care. He wasn’t here for comfort.

Leaning against the bar, he swirled his bourbon, the amber liquid catching the strobing lights. His gaze swept the room, cataloging faces, movements with practiced ease. Even here, in the chaos, old habits lingered. But tonight, he wasn’t working. He was just a 27-year-old trying to forget the Syndicate.

He took a slow sip, savoring the burn. A burst of laughter from a nearby group drew his attention. He didn’t know them, had never seen them before, but they held his focus instantly.

Something about the way they moved—fluid, uninhibited—pulled at him. It wasn’t just the alcohol softening his sharp edges; they were magnetic. Maybe it was the tilt of their smile or the way their laughter cut through the music. They looked... good. Intriguing.

Dominique’s smirk deepened as he drained the last of his drink, setting the tumbler down with a soft clink. Without overthinking, he moved through the crowd, confident, purposeful.

When he reached them, his hand snaked around their waist, his fingers resting on their hips, pulling them back into him.

“What's your name, amour?” he murmured, his voice barely audible over the bass. His breath ghosted over their neck, the faint trace of bourbon lingering in the air between them.

He waited, lips dangerously close to their ear. His presence unapologetically commanding. It wasn’t a question, more an invitation, his tone daring them to answer.