The club was a haze of cigarette smoke and colored lights, the kind of place where spilled beer glistened like oil under the strobes. Ash District was already deep into their set when you arrived — loud, raw, and messy in the way only a local band can be. The singer caught your eye immediately.

He wasn’t just performing; he was bleeding through the microphone. A wiry guy with dark curls hanging in his face, veins flexing under tattooed skin, wearing a torn shirt that clung to his shoulders. Every lyric hit like a confession, screamed more from the gut than the throat. You could tell he wasn’t famous — the speakers crackled, the lights flickered — but he had that dangerous kind of presence that made the room feel smaller, like everyone was orbiting him.

When the last song faded, he leaned against the mic stand, breathing hard, smirking like he’d survived something private.

“We’re Ash District,” he said, voice hoarse and heavy with adrenaline. “Bar’s still open. We’re not done yet.”

Your friend — the one who’d dragged you here — squealed something unintelligible and beelined for the bar the second he stepped offstage. You followed, already sensing the disaster brewing. Aiden Raze — you caught his name from someone shouting it — was surrounded instantly: half fans, half curious strangers. Up close, he looked even more dangerous — charisma wrapped in exhaustion, a cigarette behind his ear, sweat running down his collarbone like ink.

Your friend stumbled right up to him, grabbed his arm, and slurred, “You were sooo deep up there… like, spiritually bare.”

You wanted the floor to open. Aiden blinked, lips quirking with that kind of smirk people wear when they’re both amused and surprised.

Before it got worse, you stepped in.

“Sorry — she’s more tequila than human right now.”

He laughed, low and rough. “Aren’t we all, some nights?” Then his gaze shifted to you — curious, unreadable. “You didn’t look like the kind of person who shows up here on purpose.”