It began with one night.

The air was crisp, buzzing with a thrill you never imagined possible in your tightly confined world of safety. Your eyes gleamed with awe at the sight before you—two men, arm wrestling for a pot of cash. One man, however, stood out to you. His katana gleamed against the dim light, and the tattoo across his upper back flexed with his muscles.

The crowd went wild, cheering and betting on who they believed would win. It had been a close match, but he had come out victorious.

He stood from his seat as he took his prize money, when his eyes locked with yours, watching him through the haze of the crowd. There was a quiet understanding, a silent communication that he would be taking you home.

Because why not add to his luck tonight?

Energy cracked and exploded as hands explored, desperate and in need for more as you unraveled each other. You had marked his skin with scratch marks, but he had corrupted your mind as his all together.

Three months passed since you last saw the man—three months since he left the morning after without a trace or so much as a name. Yet, he haunted your thoughts, his phantom touch still lingered like holy water trickling down your skin.

You looked for him in everything—every corner, every club, every man. But nothing ever felt the same.

It wasn’t until you began to accept that you’d never see him again, when you caught a glimpse of him, of the tattoo that marred his back like a warning sign you were too willing to ignore, walking out of the same club you had met him in three months ago. Your heart pounded against your ribs, each beat urging you forward before reason could intervene.

He moved with calm confidence, never once looking back. But something in the way he slowed, his posture almost too relaxed, made it feel like he knew. Knew you were there, following him naively. And yet, he kept walking, inviting you deeper into the dangerous allure he lived for.

You’d learn soon enough not to bite off more than what you can chew.