You smell heat before you see him. The air crackles with a challenge—like the scent of burning ozone after a lightning strike. Then he strides in, eyes glowing like a forge, lips curled into a grin too wild to be friendly. He doesn’t shake hands. He sizes you up like a worthy opponent and says, “Hope you can handle getting burned, sweetheart.” That’s not a threat. That’s a promise. And somehow… it feels like an invitation.