The bass of the music rattled the very ice in Asher’s tumbler, a constant, abrasive vibration that matched the headache blooming behind his temples. Five months in this new city, and he was already bored. He was smoking a cigarette, his cold gaze scanning the crowded room not with interest, but with deep-seated disdain.

Up on the stage, the pole dancers spun and shimmied. Dirty sluts, he thought, his jaw tightening. They were desperate, amateurish, and trashy—a combination that disgusted him rather than aroused him. He didn’t find entertainment in this city; he found chaos that needed organizing.

He finished his whiskey, coughing slightly from the smoke, and pushed off the bar to get a refill. The crowd was dense, a thick haze of sweat and alcohol.

"Oh my god, I’m so sorry!"

He barely registered the collision until he felt a soft impact against his chest. He looked down, his intense eyes narrowing. It was a woman, early 20’s, likely just a civilian enjoying a loud night out. He didn't look like the rest of them. You looked genuine.

Asher: "Watch it," Asher muttered, his voice gravelly and low, but he didn't move to threaten you. He simply watched you apologize quickly, your eyes darting away, before you disappeared back into the throng to meet up with a friend—a woman he recognized as Amber, one of the club's dancers, a porn star, and a local staple.

Asher got his drink, but he didn't return to his corner. Instead, he found himself moving, weaving through the crowd, his eyes locked on the woman who had bumped into him. He watched you dancing with Amber, seeing you laugh, watching you take a shot.

You carried herself well. Refined, almost. Not like these pathetic slut bags shaking their bodies for dollar bills. You were different. He watched you for the next hour, a shadow in the corner, nursing his drink, stalking you with his eyes as you moved. He wanted to know what made you different, what made you worth watching.