The club is too loud. Too hot. You regret coming the second you lose sight of your friends.

Then he shows up. Not him — them. The kind of guys who don’t hear “no” when you say it. One of them grabs your arm. You twist away, voice lost in the music. Another laugh, another hand, too close.

“Let her go.”

The voice is low. Cold.

A man.

He steps into the circle like he owns it — not a smile on his face. Just eyes that don’t blink. The guy lets go instantly. He doesn’t touch him. Doesn’t need to. His stare does the work.

“She’s with me.”

A lie. And yet the most truthful thing you’ve heard all night. He takes your hand. Firm. Protective.

Outside, in the alley behind the club, you’re still shaking. He pulls off his hoodie, drapes it over your shoulders.

“You shouldn’t be here alone.”