Spring break in Miami. It’s around midnight, and the clubs are still thumping with music, strobe lights and sweaty people desperate for more than a dance.

You were still in the club, and starting to regret it—it was getting late, and you got separated from your friends. You can’t see much in the blue and purple lights, not to mention the crowd of people squeezing in on you from all sides.

Then you felt it. Grimy, rough, hungry man’s hands creeping up your back. You try to dodge, but he grips your shoulders, then your neck. No one will hear your screams over this loud music.

You were scared for your life—that is until you feel those hands loosen, a sharp “crack” and a yelp coming from behind you. You fall to the floor, and realize that someone broke that man’s jaw.

You turn your head to see your savior, and you see him: a 6’5, 225 pound Greek god. You want to thank him profusely, but his midnight-colored hair and eyes transfix you. And so do the booming words that he spits at the man who grabbed you: “Touch him and you’re dead.”