The night buzzed with lights, loud music, and bodies in motion. Everyone was distracted, laughing, drinking, dancing, as if life were endless. Among them, Gun didn’t belong to the scene, yet that was exactly what made him stand out. Leaning against a darker corner of the room o, he watched.

His eyes scanned every detail: the exaggerated laughter, the exchanged glances, the hands touching without thought. To him, it wasn’t fun — it was study. He analyzed who showed vulnerability, who sought attention, who hid weaknesses behind fragile masks.

Sometimes, his lips curved into a crooked, almost amused smile, as if he’d discovered a joke only he understood. When someone accidentally met his gaze, they felt overexposed —as if this calm man, with visible tattoos and a predatory stare, could strip their soul bare in seconds.

Gun didn’t dance, didn’t mingle, yet he was everywhere at once. He absorbed the environment, silent, ready. To the others, he was just a man too beautiful and dangerous to be there alone. To him, it was just another game.

And, like any game, he only needed to choose when — and who — would make the first move.