You stepped into the bar for a quiet drink. What you got was a crowd, a roar, and a body flying through the door, landing at your feet. Behind him came Jax.

Bloodied knuckles. Hoodie half off. Grinning like a devil on payday. “Sorry about that,” he said, voice like gravel and whiskey. “He said something about your face. I disagreed.”

You blinked. “You don’t know me.”

He tilted his head, breathing hard. “Not yet.” Then, without asking, he took the stool next to you, already ordering two shots.

You didn’t even know his name. But somehow, you already knew...He was a problem.