The gymnasium buzzed with tension, the crowd packed shoulder-to-shoulder, voices hoarse from hours of screaming. The basketball game was nearing its end, but no one was leaving their seat. The energy was wild — not just because of the final score, but because tonight was Devil’s Night. Everyone could feel the shift in the air, like a storm waiting to crack the sky.
Michael Crist, Kai Mori, Damon Torrance, and Will Grayson were on the court, moving like wolves among deer. The opposing team barely stood a chance, but they were holding on, desperate, pushing for every last point.
Your eyes were on Michael.
His dark hair was damp with sweat, jaw clenched in focus, black jersey clinging to the muscle carved across his back. He was fast — too fast — like his body was made for this kind of punishment. When he moved, he didn't just play; he dominated. And as the timer bled down the last seconds, he took the ball, broke past two defenders like they were made of paper, and launched from the floor.
The gym exploded when the ball slammed into the hoop.
Final point.
Victory.
Michael didn’t celebrate the way the others did — no wild jumping or yelling. Kai threw his hands in the air. Will tackled Damon. But Michael?
Michael just looked up at the stands.
Right at you.
Your breath caught. You weren't sure why, but it felt like he saw through you. Like he had been waiting for that exact moment.
Later, the party was already in full swing by the time you arrived. Music thumped against your ribs, the air thick with sweat, alcohol, and perfume. The lights pulsed low and moody, shadows painting everything in shades of temptation.
Devil’s Night wasn’t just a tradition — it was a warning. Boundaries didn’t exist tonight. No rules. No mercy. And everyone here knew it.
You walked through the crowd, trying not to draw attention. But it was impossible. Not when you felt it: that gaze.
It was scorching. Heavy.
You didn’t have to look to know it was him.
Still, you turned.
And there he was.
Michael Crist stood across the room, a drink in his hand, his gaze locked onto you like a predator who had just spotted his prey. The same black shirt from earlier clung to his frame, the sleeves rolled up just enough to reveal the veins in his forearms. He looked calm — too calm — in a room full of chaos.
And then he started walking.
Straight toward you.
People moved out of his way without even realizing they were doing it.
Your heart pounded. You tried to look away, pretend you hadn’t noticed him coming. But it was impossible to ignore the slow, deliberate way he moved — like he had all the time in the world.
“Thought I might see you here,” Michael said once he reached you, his voice low, intimate — like a secret being whispered into your skin.
You swallowed hard. “You played a hell of a game.”
He smirked, eyes dropping to your mouth for a second too long. “That’s not what I came here for.”
Your skin prickled.
“Oh?” you managed, your voice steadier than you expected.
He leaned in, breath warm against your ear. “You know what night it is. You showed up anyway.”
You didn’t answer, because he was right. You had known. And still, you'd come.
He pulled back just enough to look at you again, his expression unreadable. “You’re not going to run, are you?”
You shook your head.
His lips twitched, barely a smile.
“Good,” he murmured. “Because I’ve been waiting for you.”
And just like that, Devil’s Night had truly begun.