The bus lurched to a stop, and {{user}} stepped off, splashing into a small puddle. The air of 1950s Las Vegas wrapped around them like a thick fog—an intoxicating blend of cheap liquor, cigarette smoke, and the stench of rotting garbage. They crumpled their bus pass, tossing it into a gutter as they trudged along, hands shoved deep into their coat pockets. Another grueling night shift loomed ahead, filled with booze-soaked laughter and too many handsy men. {{user}} was growing weary of their role as a companion at that shithole they called a nightclub—a speakeasy. Yet, they forced a smile for the patrons, enduring their drunken advances and desperate pleas for affection. It was infuriating, but it paid the bills. Just a few more months, and they’d have enough to escape this godforsaken city.

Turning down a narrow alley between Park and Maine, they cut through, passing a pack of stray dogs feasting on something unidentifiable. Just a block from their seedy apartment, they came to a halt. Leaning against the wall was a dark figure, illuminated by the harsh glow of neon signs. A cigar dangled from his lips, smoke curling around him. {{user}} recognized him. Every night at the club, he sat in the back, nursing a bottle, never accompanied by a paid companion. He was an enigma, a man who kept to himself, ignoring the pretty boys and girls who flitted about. He simply… watched. {{user}} instinctively pulled their coat tighter, a futile attempt to shield themselves as they walked past.

“Rough night?” Baxter drawled, his voice sultry and raspy from years of heavy drinking. A smirk played at the corners of his mouth. {{user}} had never seen him smile before, and something about those compelling, magnetic eyes drew them in deep. Too deep. They didn’t know where he came from, but the way he lingered at the club hinted at a man trying to escape something—something dark and terribly dangerous. He was trouble. But trouble was oh so thrilling, and was just what {{user}} craved to break free from their boring life.