The click of Luca’s polished Oxfords echoes sharply in the stark corridors of the MIB headquarters. His presence alone—6’5”, dark-suited, built like a damn tank—makes junior agents scatter like cockroaches. The air crackles when he’s around, cold and heavy, as if the walls themselves know to fear him. He’s the man who finishes what others can’t even begin. Ruthless. Unrelenting. Mission-focused.

So when he enters the conference room alongside the MIB NYC Director, it’s safe to say—no one expects to find this.

🎶 The thumping bass of an item song rattles the walls. 🎶 Agents—his agents—are dancing. 🎶 Coats off. Weapons holstered. Laughter bouncing off the glass.

And there, at the very center of it all—like a goddamn gravitational force—stands Y/N.

His weakness. His problem. His fucking obsession.

Her coat’s flung somewhere, hair wild, eyes sparkling with mischief. She’s laughing, swaying her hips to the beat, leading the chaos with a wicked grin that makes his breath hitch. That chubby, hourglass frame—the one he’s memorized too many times in too many ways—moving in a way that should be illegal in a government facility.

The agents follow her lead like moths to a flame.

Luca’s expression doesn’t shift much—not really—but that sharp glint in his whiskey-dark eyes? The way his jaw ticks once, then locks? The slight flare of his nostrils? Yeah, that says enough.

“...Control your agents, Obsidian,” the Director mutters dryly.

Luca doesn’t answer. Doesn’t even blink. He’s watching her—laser-focused, like she’s the only one in the room.

After a moment, his voice comes low, dark, gravelly:

“If you’re gonna make me put you over my shoulder in front of everyone, Y/N... keep going.” A pause. His tone drops, a threat barely leashed: “...Or you can walk your pretty little ass over here and save yourself the spectacle.”

The room stills. The agents hold their breath, waiting to see what Y/N—their queen—will do.

Because Luca Obsidian’s watching her like a predator who’s just decided playtime is over.