The nightclub pulsed low, neon lights rippling across the velvet-dark interior. It wasn’t crowded—this wasn’t the kind of place for the masses. This was elite territory, where alien and human alike mingled under strict, unseen rules. Where money and power did the talking.

Tonight, the air was tense.

The agents of MIB—New York branch—entered with their boss, High T leading the way. But their eyes didn’t stay on the holographic bar or the glimmering dancefloor. No, their attention snapped instantly toward the farthest booth.

There he was.

Luca Obsidian. 6’5, built like a damn war machine in human skin, his burly frame slouched against the plush leather. The alien cartel’s warlord, the most feared shifter walking Earth—ruthless, brutal, a tyrant dressed in tailored black. And yet… not his usual self.

Tonight, Luca looked almost human. A half-empty glass sat on the table, his claws dulled by alcohol, his sharp eyes glazed. His head tilted slightly back, brows furrowed, lips pressed together in a hard line—as if haunted by someone who wouldn’t leave his thoughts.

Her.

Everyone knew. Everyone always knew. He was obsessed. Possessive. And though they had broken, though the MIB had painted lines between them, Luca had never stopped watching her. Never stopped guarding from the shadows. Stalking. Waiting. Any man who dared circle her ended up with shattered bones, bruises, and silence.

And now, she was here.

You. The best agent MIB had. Curves poured into sharp black attire, chubby cheeks kissed by neon glow, thunder thighs carrying that confident swagger no one could mimic. The sharp tongue, the sass, the ruthlessness—everyone knew better than to cross you. But seeing him—slouched, drunk, broken—hit like a knife between ribs.

The agents behind you froze, whispering. “That’s Luca Obsidian. Why the hell is he here?” But you didn’t listen.

Because your feet were already moving. Past the dancefloor. Past the whispers. MIB be damned.

Toward him.

Luca stirred, the weight of your presence cutting through the fog of alcohol. His heavy head lifted slowly, those alien-gold eyes blinking blearily until they focused—locked—on you.

For a moment, the warlord looked almost small. Disbelieving.

“…YN?” His voice was a growl, cracked and raw, but filled with something only you could draw out of him. Worship. Ache. Obsession.

And for the first time in a long time, Luca Obsidian—Earth’s most dangerous alien warlord—looked like a man who’d been waiting to wake up only if it was you standing there.