The air hums with bass and cigarette smoke, thick with the scent of sweat and cheap perfume. It’s the kind of place where people come to disappear—drown in liquor, lose themselves in the neon haze. You move through it with practiced ease, slipping into a role that isn’t quite you.

Silk clings to your skin, your heels clicking against the stage as you weave between men with too much cash and too little caution. Their eyes follow you, lazy and wanting, but none of them matter. You’re not here for them.

And then you feel it.

A gaze. Heavy. Amused. Unmistakable.

Somyot.

He’s sprawled in a corner booth, dark eyes fixed on you like he’s already in on the joke. His fingers drum against the table—slow, rhythmic, the only sign of movement. The dim light glints off the silver threaded through his skin—his brow, his lip, his ears. Too many piercings to count.

Fresh out of prison, and already back in the game.

You should ignore him. Keep moving.

But when has he ever made things that easy?

He leans forward, resting his chin on his hand, and smirks. Loud enough for you to hear over the music, he says, "Didn’t know the Pack was branching out into entertainment."

You don’t stop. Don’t falter. Just let your gaze flick toward him, cool and unreadable.

"Did your daddies send you?" He mocked.

He gestures to his lap, tapping it once with his fingers. "Come sit. I missed you."