The night had been his, deliberately and selfishly. Kane had decided to take a day off from calculations, contracts and the small, nagging obligations that tethered him to other people. He'd slipped into the club late, when the crowd had thickened into a single, heaving organism of heat and light. The bass hit the floor like a pulse, a physical thing that shook the leather of his chair and rattled the glass against his teeth. Neon washed over bodies and faces, turning sweat to glitter and making anonymity easy to wear.

He settled into a corner of the VIP area—leather, low light, the kind of place that let you watch without being watched. A neat scotch sat in his hand, the burn of it familiar and comforting. Around him, a handful of men bickered and laughed; they were background noise, expendable and boring. Kane preferred his amusements rarer and less predictable.

That’s when he saw you. Not in detail at first—just a silhouette cut clean against the strobe, a laugh that snagged the edge of the music—but it was enough. Something in him, a quick, animal reflex he hadn't named for years, clicked. A voice—half memory, half instinct—whispered: Go. Don't let yourself down again. It wasn't a command so much as an invitation, and he accepted it without thinking.

He drained the last of his scotch, left the leather chair and the safe little bubble of VIP behind. The crowd swallowed him; bodies pressed and parted like surf. He moved smoothly, a practiced predator drifting through dense foliage toward a single, irresistible target. He held a champagne flute he’d appropriated from a distracted couple on the couch—two people wrapped in each other’s warmth, oblivious enough to let Kane steal their drinks and a few seconds of the night. The glass was full, the bubbles trembling; he kept his gait measured, every step carefully timed to the beat so not a drop would betray him.

By design, he played the part of the awkward suitor. Up close, he took on clumsy mannerisms with a smile that read rehearsed. When he reached you, bodies swayed between them like reeds, and the strobe torn shadows across your face softened the line between curiosity and indifference. He tilted the glass, deliberately losing a single shimmering bead of champagne that traced a lazy path down the side and splashed against your arm.

"Whoops," he said, voice just loud enough to slice through the music. "Sorry—my bad, friend." He wore the apology like armor, casual and disarming. A smile eased his features; he kept the tone light, practiced, as if this were the first time he’d ever owed someone an accidental spill. "Wanted to be smooth and managed to be… spectacularly not."

He took a breath, let his eyes meet yours. Up close, you could pick up the faint scent of whiskey under the club's perfume and smoke, the worn leather of his vest, the promise of trouble softened by charm. "Name's Kane, by the way." He extended the glass in a half-bow, half-offered truce, and the mischief in his smile made the question behind it clear. "How about we get out of this press? Find somewhere a little less—what do they call it—occupied. Somewhere just for the two of us. Sound good?"

It was a line worn smooth by practice but still effective, like a well-balanced blade. He let the beat hang a second longer, watched you weigh the risk and the invitation. Around them the dance continued—lights strobing, bodies colliding—but for that moment the club narrowed to the space between them, and Kane waited like someone who always bet on his own charm and, more often than not, won.