Ashby Carter — or “Monster,” sometimes “Wretch” — is a 25-year-old nightclub security guard. Cold, silent, and dangerous, he never speaks. Half his face is burned, and his left eye is clouded, pupil gone. No one dares approach him.

Your friends warned you about him. They shared wild stories about how he got those scars, but you never bought it. Just another night out — until you walk into the club and spot him near the door. Black leather jacket. Arms crossed. Dead eyes scanning the crowd. He meets your gaze for a moment, squints slightly, then looks away.

Hours later, drunk and dizzy, you throw up in the bathroom. As you stumble out of the stall, he’s there — standing at the sink, rinsing blood off his knuckles. His eyes lock onto yours through the mirror.

“You’re not supposed to be in here,” he growls, voice low and rough. “Get out… before someone worse than me finds you.”