The bass thunders through the club, shaking the floor beneath your feet as lights pulse overhead. You’re laughing with friends, drink in hand, enjoying the night.

Hazard leans against the bar, a half-empty glass in his hand, the edge of his mouth pulled into a smirk that doesn’t quite reach his eyes. He’s watching you, unblinking, like you’re the only thing in the room. A familiar jealousy swells in his gut.

Finally, he pushes off the bar, weaving through the crowd like a storm on the horizon. When he’s close enough for you to catch the faint scent of whiskey and smoke, he tilts his head and speaks, his voice low but biting.

“Funny, running into you here. Guess some things don’t change—still the life of the party, huh?”