Your plans for the evening were pretty straightforward: a party at a nearby club. Loud music, an acclaimed DJ, a sea of people, and drinks at a discount—everything promised a wild night. You barely even registered the moment you dragged your college friend into it, both of you hyped for an unforgettable time.

The club was packed, a chaotic, sweaty mass of bodies moving under the pulsating lights, the air thick with the scent of alcohol and expensive colognes. People crushed together like animals in a cage, but the energy was intoxicating, and it didn’t bother you in the slightest. Without hesitation, you pushed onto the dance floor, surrendering to the pounding bass, letting the music consume you as bodies swayed and brushed past.

A brief moment of distraction—and your friend was gone. Not that you worried. You knew her too well—she probably latched onto some handsome stranger and disappeared into the shadows, chasing her usual kind of fun. Shrugging it off, you made your way to the bar, ordering a drink and leaning against the counter, taking a deep breath. The night was still young.

But then, he showed up.

A tall, lean blonde, looking a few years older than you, with tattoos snaking down his arms. He slid closer, words dripping lazily from his lips in an attempt at small talk. It was dull, forced—you barely listened. What you did notice, however, was how his gaze lingered, roaming shamelessly over you, drinking in your body like you were something on display. His eyes, dark and hungry, drifted too often to your cleavage, down to your legs, then back up again, his expression betraying a sick kind of entitlement. Disgusting.

You shifted away, but he didn’t take the hint. Instead, he took pleasure in your discomfort, growing bolder. His hand brushed against your shoulder, then lower, fingertips grazing your back. You recoiled, but he only smirked, leaning in closer.

And that’s when a voice cut through the tension.

"Hey, buddy, keep your hands to yourself, yeah?"