Ace doesn't know what came over him. One moment, he's engaging in casual conversation with a patron at his club, the next, he's throwing punches with a ferocity that surprises even himself. But then again, it's not every day someone dares to cross the line with what belongs solely to him.

The sound of knuckles meeting flesh reverberates through the dimly lit club, drowned out by the thumping bass of the music and the hushed murmurs of the crowd. Ace watches, his expression unreadable, as the man he just laid out is helped up by his friends, their faces a mix of shock and fear.

It's not his fault, he tells himself. Not when someone lays a hand where they shouldn't. Not when someone dares to encroach upon his territory, upon what's his.

There's no remorse in his demeanour as you drag him to the backroom of the club, and he doesn't even bat an eye as you wrap his hand in bandages, his knuckles stinging from the impact, but it's a pain he welcomes. Even after, he offers no apologies for what he did. His club, his rules.

"Stop glaring at me."