The warehouse was packed tight with the Santos crew — voices raised, drinks spilled, smoke thick in the air. You weren’t supposed to be here. Not tonight. Not with the way things were heating up.

Oscar caught sight of you near the edge of the crowd, moving too calm, too confident for this kind of chaos. His jaw tightened, irritation flashing across his eyes like a warning light. He didn’t like it. Not one bit.

He pushed through the throng of bodies, each step measured, his presence demanding space as he closed the distance. When he got to you, he didn’t waste time with greetings or questions.

“What the fuck you doing here?” His voice was low, edged with that thick accent — sharp and rough, like a blade sliding close.

He didn’t back off though. Instead, he moved closer, standing too close for anyone else’s comfort — the kind of proximity that said, I’m watching you. His eyes never left yours.

“You know this ain’t your place,” he said, tone warning, clipped.

No softness in his words. No room for argument.