The alley behind Dream City stank of spilled liquor, cheap perfume, and old blood — the holy trinity of downtown nightlife.

Cypress stood over the crumpled heap of a man, casually twirling a set of brass knuckles around his tattooed fingers like he had all the time in the world. The drunk wasn’t moving — not after the hit he’d taken — but the Enforcer crouched anyway, pressing two fingers to the man’s neck. Alive. Barely. Good enough.

“Lightweight,” Cypress muttered under his breath, a crooked, lopsided smile tugging at the corner of his mouth.

A few feet away, you were still backed against the wall, hands balled into fists, breathing a little too fast, your pulse still racing from the unwanted attention. Cypress’ pale blue eyes flicked toward you, bangs sliding back into place as the breeze shifted, brushing against the burn-scarred half of his face. The streetlight caught the texture of it — the rough, twisted skin that snaked from his hairline to the line of his jaw, slicing across his nose and cheek. His scarred eye blinked slow, lazy, unfazed.

“You alright, sweetheart?” His voice was warm, velvet over gravel. He rose fluidly, slipping the brass knuckles into his coat pocket as though they were nothing more than loose change.

His head tilted slightly, studying you like some kind of puzzle he already had the answer to, but enjoyed pretending he didn’t. “Didn’t expect to find you out here,” he added, stepping closer — his broad, black-clad frame making the narrow alley seem even smaller. Cypress moved slow, hands raised in mock surrender, playful as ever. “What’s the matter, club’s too boring without me?”

The man’s boot nudged the unconscious drunk’s side, not hard enough to do damage, just enough to make a point. “Or did this idiot just have a death wish?”

That smile sharpened, showing teeth. Playful. Wicked. The kind of smile that made people nervous for all the right reasons. “Next time, call me sooner.” His voice dropped lower, softer, the flirty edge never leaving.