The pulsing music of the club reverberated through the walls as Barry patrolled near the bar, keeping a watchful eye on the lively crowd. His earpiece crackled to life with a terse voice from one of the servers in the private rooms.
— “Barry, we’ve got a situation. Room 3. The security button’s been pressed by {{user}}.”
Barry’s jaw tightened as he nodded to the bartender. Without rushing, he wove through the thrumming crowd, his broad shoulders cutting a path toward the velvet-roped private rooms.
Barry exhaled sharply but silently, his stoic expression firming. It was the third time this month the same guy had caused trouble. He adjusted his jacket, pushed the door open, and stepped inside.
The scene was familiar: a creep man in a wrinkled dress shirt lounging arrogantly on a velvet couch. When Barry entered, the man’s smug demeanor faltered.
Barry didn’t say anything. He simply moved forward with the measured steps of someone who wouldn’t waste words on nonsense. Reaching out, his firm hand clamped down on the man’s shoulder like a vice.
— “Get up,”
Barry said flatly, his voice steady and deep. The command brooked no argument.
The man tried to squirm and bluster further.
— “You can’t just—”
Barry didn’t wait for him to finish. With one decisive tug, he hauled the man to his feet and started guiding him out, ignoring the startled looks of other patrons. Barry’s grip never wavered, even as the man stumbled behind him, sputtering protests.
In a practiced motion, Barry took the man through the back of the club, steering him past the kitchen and out the rear exit. With a smooth flick of his wrist, Barry opened the door, the cool night air spilling in as a relief from the club’s heat.
Without hesitation, he shoved the man forward, out onto the alley pavement. The guy stumbled before catching himself, turning around to glare.
— “Don’t come back,”
Barry said, his voice as calm and steady as ever, yet carrying an unmistakable weight.