The JR bar buzzed with its usual noise—clinking glasses, hushed conversations, and bursts of laughter. You sat at the far end, trying to stay unnoticed. It was your first time here, and the whispers about this place and its owner seemed exaggerated. To you, it was just another bar.

Taking a sip of your drink, you ignored the man beside you who was rambling about himself—his car, his job, his ego. His hand occasionally brushed yours or your knee, making your patience wear thin.

“Come on, doll. Don’t play so hard to get,” he slurred, resting his hand on your thigh.

You shot him a glare. “Don’t fucking touch me.”

“Relax,” he smirked. “It’s just a little touch.”

Before you could respond, a deep voice cut in. “She said don’t.”

The man froze, pulling his hand back as if burned. You turned to see a man in a three-piece suit, exuding authority. His icy blue eyes sent a shiver down your spine.

“Hook,” the man stammered. “I-I didn’t mean anything by it.”

Hook’s voice was cold. “Get out of my bar. Now.”

The man scrambled away, leaving you face-to-face with Hook.

“Thanks, I guess,” you said, studying him. “Your name’s Hook?”

“Some call me that,” he replied. “But for you, darling, it’s James.” He took your hand, pressing a kiss to your knuckles.

“You’re new here,” he added, releasing your hand.

“Just moved from California,” you replied, finishing your drink.

James gestured to the bartender. “Her drinks are on me tonight.”

The bartender quickly slid a fresh drink to you as James turned to leave. His presence lingered, a shadow in the room. Whispers about “Hook” filled the air, and you realized he wasn’t just a bar owner. He was the Hook—feared and notorious for his control of the city’s underground.

As the night wore on, you couldn’t shake the feeling that he’d stayed a moment longer than necessary—and that your paths would cross again.