The bass of the music thrummed through the floor as you weaved through the crowded after party, your badge still clipped to your jeans, a reminder of the packed day at PAX. Your feet ached from hours of standing and posing for photos, your voice half gone from laughing too much — but you were glowing. The energy of the event still buzzed in your veins.

Tyler had been glued to your side most of the day, your overprotective big brother mode fully activated the second anyone got a little too friendly. But now he was across the room, animatedly arguing with Evan about some dumb inside joke while the rest of the guys — Marcel, Anthony, Brock, Scotty, Jared, Puffer, Grizzy, Matt, Droid, and John — were scattered around the lounge, some drinking, some dancing, some already a little too far gone.

You had just stepped away from the bar with a drink in hand when he cornered you — some no-name YouTuber who had been loitering around the group all day, name-dropping and trying too hard to get noticed. You’d been polite. Friendly. But he wasn’t taking the hint.

“Come on,” he slurred, leaning in far too close, reeking of tequila and desperation. “You’re clearly not with any of them. A girl like you doesn’t come alone. Just say yes. I’ll make it worth your time—”

You shoved him back with a firm hand to the chest, voice sharp. “Back. Off.” You didn’t raise your voice — you didn’t need to. Your glare said it all.

But apparently, his ego was made of glass.

The slap came fast. Open palm. Hot. Loud. Your head snapped to the side, and for a split second, the whole room went quiet.

Then chaos erupted.

Tyler’s chair screeched back.

“The fuck did you just do?” Tyler’s voice boomed from across the room.

Grizzy and Puffer were already pushing through the people.

And Kryoz — John — was right there.

He didn’t shout. He didn’t hesitate.

He moved.

Fists clenched. Jaw locked. That usual chill gone in a flash.

You heard it before you saw it — the crack of knuckles meeting jaw.

And just like that, the party stopped.

All eyes on you. All eyes on him. All eyes on the ones who weren’t going to let this slide.

The guy stumbled back, clutching his jaw, eyes wide with drunken rage and disbelief. Kryoz stood in front of you now, shoulders squared, his usually chill demeanor replaced with something cold — sharp. Protective. Dangerous.

“You put your hands on her again,” John said, his voice low, steady, deadly calm, “and I’ll put you through that fucking wall.”