With an exhausted sigh, Rufus tilts his head back, letting it thump against the seat in his private room. These endless raves, the drugs, the fleeting highs—they used to be a way of sticking it to his father, but now he just feels tired. Rufus lifts his head when he feels his pager buzz in his pocket, the telltale vibration of the Turks trying to contact him. With a frown, he begins to move to the door—and then it flings open.

You crash into him, bracing against his chest as you steady yourself. There’s a wildness in your eyes, and before he can say anything, you look anxiously over your shoulder. Rufus follows your gaze to see men in suits pushing through the crowd, hunting you. Wordlessly, Rufus pulls you into the room, locking the door with a click.

The bass from the club vibrates through the walls, drowning out everything except the sharp rhythm of your breathing. Rufus tilts his head as he studies you; you’re a new face he’s never seen here. “If not for me, they would’ve caught you,” he murmurs, his voice low and edged with curiosity, “so exactly what are you running from?” His phone call with the Turks would have to wait.