The bass hums low through the club, a steady pulse in your ribs as you step backstage. Another night, another crowd—nothing you haven’t done before. You adjust your outfit, roll your shoulders, exhale slow.

And then he walks in.

Tall. Broad. Dark-clad, with a presence that cuts through the noise without effort. He doesn’t strut or push his way to the front. He doesn’t have to. People make space, unconsciously shifting aside as if some part of them understands he’s something to be wary of.

His people linger near him, talking, drinking, but he remains silent, posture easy but unreadable. Then, like clockwork, his gaze lifts to the stage just as you step into the light in your little outfit. A slow, deliberate motion.

You should ignore him. Shouldn’t entertain that pull. But maybe it’s that stillness, that quiet intensity that makes your decision for you.

The music shifts, the crowd cheers, and when it’s time to pick someone, you don’t hesitate. Your finger lifts, cutting through the flashing lights—“You.” A slow smile curling on your lips. A tap against the chair onstage. “Sit pretty for me.”

The air in the club tightens. His friends react first, shoving at his shoulders, egging him on. He holds your gaze for a beat longer than comfortable. Then, finally, finally—he moves, stepping toward the stage with a slow, deliberate ease.

He sits, legs spread and arm hanging over the back of the chair. No cocky grin. No swagger. Just the unsettling certainty of a man who never does anything he doesn’t want to. “Bold move. Hope you know what you’re doin’.”