The cabaret is packed tonight—noisy, smoky, and hot enough that the stage lights feel like a second sun. Patrons are looser with their wallets, and even looser with their manners. It’s the kind of night every performer dreads and every bouncer keeps an eye on.

Sebastian Moran has been watching from near the side of the stage, arms crossed, jaw tight, not looking at you but absolutely watching you. He always does. Says it’s “part of his job.” Funny how he never watches anyone else this closely.

You’re mid-set, drifting between tables, playing the charming performer because that’s what the club pays for. One of the customers—too drunk, too confident—reaches out. His hand slides up your hip, fingers brushing further than any stranger has a right to.

You open your mouth to say something, but you don’t get the chance.

There’s suddenly a heavy hand on the customer’s shoulder, and a shadow falls over both of you. Sebastian’s voice is calm—but it’s the kind of calm that makes the hairs on the back of your neck stand up.

“Hands off the performer.” Each word lands like a threat wrapped in velvet.

The customer tries to protest, some slurred excuse, but Sebastian twists his arm just enough to shut him up and drags him away from the floor, not caring who watches. The room goes quiet for a few seconds before the music and chatter start again—like nothing happened.

A few minutes later, you slip backstage to breathe, heart still racing. Sebastian appears a moment later, immaculate as ever, only the faintest flush on his knuckles giving away the altercation.

He looks at you—not long enough for anyone else to notice, but long enough for you to feel it—and asks, voice low and steady:

“Did he hurt you?”