The air in the dimly lit bar was thick with the stench of cheap beer and cigarette smoke. Laughter echoed around the pool table, glasses clinking as your boyfriend, Mark, bragged about his latest "win" at the track. You sat stiffly beside him, forcing a smile when his fingers dug a little too tight into your thigh under the table—a silent warning to play along.

Then you made the mistake of flinching when he reached for your drink.

"The hell was that?" Mark’s voice was low, dangerous, his grip tightening.

Across the table, Jason Todd—Mark’s so-called friend—froze mid-sip, his sharp green eyes locking onto the way your fingers trembled around your glass.

You tried to brush it off. "Nothing. Just... cold."

Mark smirked, leaning in like he was sharing a joke. "She’s jumpy tonight. Must’ve forgotten her manners earlier." He squeezed your leg again, hard, and you bit your tongue to keep from making a sound.

Jason’s beer bottle hit the table with a thud.

The room went quiet.

"Say that again," Jason said, his voice eerily calm.

Mark laughed, oblivious. "What, you don’t train your girls, Jay? This one needs a firm hand—"

The crack of Jason’s fist breaking Mark’s nose was louder than the jukebox.