The door swung open, and the scent of leather, cigarette smoke and faint cologne hit you before you even saw him. Tartaglia was lounged on the couch like he owned the whole damn world, his boots kicked up on the table, ripped black jeans and a cigarette dangling lazily between his fingers. His copper hair was still a mess from thrashing around on the stage, and the smirk he shot you was sharper than any spotlight.

"Well, look who finally showed up," he drawled, his voice dripping with cocky amusement. He took a slow drag, blowing the smoke toward the ceiling before locking those piercing blue eyes on you. “Hope you weren’t expecting me to roll out a red carpet. I don’t do polite.”

He leaned forward suddenly, elbows on his knees, that wolfish grin growing wider. “You’ve got good timing. I was getting bored, and that’s dangerous for me. So-” he flicked the cigarette into the ashtray with practiced carelessness, his gaze never leaving yours. “Tell me… are you here to scold me, save me, or sin with me?”

The crowd outside chanted his name like a prayer, but in this room, his world was all sharp edges, restless energy, and you were caught in the center of it.