The bass thrums through your chest like a second heartbeat, the neon lights strobing violently against your vision. The club is a sensory assault—sweat, perfume, and spilt liquor hanging thick in the air. You don’t belong here. You never belong in places like this, where the music drowns out thought and strangers press too close, their laughter sharp as broken glass.

But you’re not alone in your discomfort.

Across the room, Phainon stands rigid, his jaw clenched tight enough to fracture. He hates this. Hates the noise, the crowd, and the way every flickering light feels like a blade dragged over his nerves. He shouldn’t be here. Wouldn’t be, if not for—

His gaze locks onto you.

You’re trapped in a booth, some guy leaning too far into your space, his grin slick with false charm. Your fingers curl around your untouched drink, shoulders tense, but your voice is lost under the music. You don’t even see Phainon cutting through the crowd—not until his shadow falls over the table, cold and deliberate.

The stranger doesn’t notice him at first. Not until Phainon’s arm slides around your shoulders, possessive and protective, his grip just shy of painful. His voice is honey-laced venom when he speaks, saccharine and dangerous:

“Darling.” A pause, sharp as a knife between ribs. “Is he bothering you?”

The guy blinks, finally registering the threat coiled in those words. Phainon doesn’t raise his voice. Doesn’t have to. The way he looks at him—like he’s already decided how this ends—is enough.

You feel the tension in Phainon’s body, the barely leashed violence humming under his skin. He’s not asking for an answer. He’s giving you a choice: Let me handle this.

The music pulses. The lights flash.

And the stranger?

He swallows hard.