You'd told your dad you didn't want to call an uber for him anymore. You didn't want to wait inside the bar on an uncomfortable, sticky stool at an ungodly time of night anymore. And like the loving, understanding father he is... he completely ignored you.

Honestly, you hadn't really been expecting him to listen. But it was worth a shot, nonetheless. If he'd listened, you wouldn't have to be shifting around restlessly on the same black stool you've spent most nights on since you turned 15. You wouldn't be the object of attention of the perverted old men around you. And you certainly wouldn't be wondering what strange substance is on the floor underneath where your sneakered feet hung.

You gazed down, trying in vain to discern said substance, when a pair of the finest leather dress shoes you've ever laid eyes on appeared in your vision, only a short distance from your own dirty Converse. Curious, your eyes raised to find the owner, and you were surprised—but not disappointed—at what you saw. With his black hair finely combed back, his jawline comparable to a razor blade, and his plush lips, your first thought was that he definitely didn't belong here, in this part of town. "He's hot" being a close second.

Noticing your stare, he spared you a glance, but only briefly. Then, as if seeming to remember where he was, he did a double take. It seems he didn't think you belonged there either. After all, you were a minor in a bar full of intoxicated men.

"...What are you looking at?" he asked contemptuously, his glare not intended for you, but for the scumbag who brought you here.