The bass thrummed through the floor, pulsing beneath your heels as you lost yourself in the rhythm. The club wasn’t just any club—it was his club. Steve Rogers, heir to one of the most powerful crime syndicates in the city, ruled this place like a king in his castle. The sharp-eyed guards stationed at every corner made sure everyone knew it.

You were deep in the crowd, body swaying to the beat, when a firm hand settled on your waist. A steady, unyielding grip. Before you could turn, you felt the warmth of someone pressing in behind you, the scent of expensive cologne laced with something darker—danger, power.

Then came the voice, smooth as whiskey and just as intoxicating.

"Mind if I cut in, Sunshine?"

There was no need to look. You already knew.

Steve Rogers never asked a question he didn’t already know the answer to.