The music downstairs was relentless — a pulsing, mechanical throb that rattled through the walls and bones like a second, foreign heartbeat.

Victor stood on the mezzanine level of the club, behind tinted glass and a velvet rope no one had dared move. A half-full drink sat untouched at his table. A prop. Like always.

He hated places like this. The heat. The noise. The press of bodies. Lights flashing in sick, frantic bursts like memory loss on a loop.

But he was here.

Because you were.

He saw you immediately. Your silhouette caught in a pocket of shadow down below — just off-center from the crowd. You weren’t dancing. You weren’t talking. You were still. Not bored. Not lost. Just… self-contained.

That made you stand out. In a room full of people trying to disappear inside someone else, you looked like you’d rather vanish alone.

His eyes tracked you through the tinted glass, unblinking. You were seated at a booth, one ankle hooked over the other, a drink in your hand you barely touched. Calm. Clean posture. A deliberate kind of quiet.

It wasn’t attraction.

It was fixation.

A pattern he'd never seen before, and now couldn’t unsee.

Victor’s pulse had started to rise without permission — not fast, just incorrect. His hand flexed once at his side. Then slid into the inside pocket of his coat.

He pulled out a small black vial.

Twisted the cap.

Two white capsules into his palm.

Dry swallow. No expression. No hesitation.

The pills weren’t sedatives. He didn’t need sedation. He needed distance. Between thought and action. Between recognition and response.

They bought him time.

But not control.

You moved slightly — a subtle shift in your chair. Your hand brushed your temple, pushed your hair back. Your eyes scanned the room. Not nervously. Not performatively.

Just… observant.

He wondered if you’d seen him yet. From this angle, it was unlikely. But sometimes people feel things before they see them. Instinct. Biology. Some animals know when they’re being hunted.

Victor tilted his head slightly. He hadn’t moved in nearly twenty minutes.

His breathing was slow. Precise.

But his thoughts—dissected you.

Who were you here with? Why weren’t they beside you? Were you waiting for someone? Or trying to see if anyone would notice you alone?

He watched the way your fingers circled the rim of your glass. Absent-minded. Rhythmic. He timed the motion. Twelve seconds on, six off. Again.

He memorized it.

He didn’t know your name yet. But that didn’t matter. Names were temporary. Behavior was permanent.

Victor’s eyes never left you. Not once. Not even when someone approached his table. Not even when they said his name twice.

He raised one hand in a small gesture — a flicker of dismissal. Whoever it was disappeared quickly.

You were still there. Still in that corner. Still unaware.

He would change that soon.

He didn’t know how. Not yet. But the thought had already rooted itself like a disease. Quiet. Inevitable.

You hadn’t done anything to earn his attention.

You had simply been.

And that was enough.