The night unfolds in velvet and low light.

Eden is nothing like the clubs back home—no flashing chaos, no desperate noise. Everything here is deliberate. The music hums low, expensive, almost intimate. Conversations stay hushed, like everyone’s afraid of being overheard by the walls themselves.

You trail in with Tiana and the others, laughter spilling easily from her—birthday glow, champagne confidence. Her boyfriend flashes a knowing smile at the door, a murmured word exchanged, and suddenly you’re inside without question.

That’s when you feel it.

Not eyes on you exactly— more like attention.

Across the room, half-shadowed in a deep red chair, a man sits apart from the indulgence. No glass raised. No movement wasted. He doesn’t look impressed by Eden… which tells you he owns something far more dangerous than the room.

Boaz De La Rosa watches.

Not openly. Not rudely. Like an observer cataloging a detail that doesn’t belong.

You don’t dress like the regulars. You don’t move like them either. There’s a moment—just one—where his gaze lingers longer than it should, curiosity sharpening into something quieter and far more dangerous.

A newcomer. Out of town. Uninitiated.

He doesn’t approach. Doesn’t summon you. Doesn’t smile.

Instead, he turns slightly to one of his staff, murmurs something too soft to hear, and settles back—eyes never fully leaving you.

Because Eden is patient.

And Boaz De La Rosa prefers to see what people reveal when they think no one important is watching.