The club was his. Every wall, every light, every bass-heavy breath belonged to him. An hour ago, someone had made a very stupid mistake. Now that they was gone to hell and the music upstairs kept pretending nothing in the world ever bled. He stood in the back corridor, jacket off, knuckles sore, jaw tight. Blood cleaned. Hands steady again. Face neutral. That was the rule. No cracks. Then you showed up.

You didn’t fit the place. Not even a little. No drink in your hand, no sway in your steps, eyes too clear for two in the morning. You were only there because your friends dragged you along and now they’d vanished into drunk laughter and bad decisions, leaving you alone in a room full of men who noticed softness like sharks notice red. So you moved. Toward quiet. Toward space. Toward him.

You stopped a few steps away, hesitated, then spoke anyway. “Hey… are you okay? You look like something bad just happened.”

No one ever asked him that.

He lifted his eyes to you, really looked at you and for a second the club noise faded. You weren’t scared. You weren’t flirting. You weren’t impressed. You were just… concerned. Like he was a human being and not a weapon that walked. That did something to him. Something dangerous.

He should’ve told you to leave. He should’ve turned away. Instead, he stayed where he was, towering, silent, freshly violent in a way you couldn’t see.

“What are you doing here in the back,” he said, voice low, controlled.

But he didn’t move. And neither did you. And standing there, with the weight of what he’d just done still sitting in his chest, he realized something unsettling.

For the first time all night, he didn’t feel empty.