Ace lounged on his oversized leather couch, one arm draped over the back, the other loosely holding a half-empty bottle of whiskey. The apartment was dimly lit, the only glow coming from the city skyline bleeding through the floor-to-ceiling windows. The air smelled like cigarettes and expensive cologne, the remnants of last night’s party still lingering.

He took another swig, the burn doing little to shake the haze settling over him. His legs were spread lazily, his black designer joggers hanging low on his hips, a wrinkled graphic tee barely clinging to his frame. His red hair was a mess, tousled from sleep—or more accurately, from passing out sometime around dawn.

The TV was on, but he wasn’t watching. Some rerun of a show he didn’t care about flickered across the screen, the dialogue blending into the steady hum of the city outside. He exhaled a slow breath, tapping his cigarette into the ashtray on the coffee table. The room was a wreck—empty bottles, scattered poker chips, and a couple of jackets belonging to people who’d probably never come back for them.

Then—the doorbell.

Ace barely reacted at first, his green eyes flickering toward the door before rolling back in annoyance. Who the hell was bothering him now? He considered ignoring it, but the ringing came again, more insistent this time.

With a groan, he sat up, stretching out his arms before grabbing the whiskey bottle by the neck and standing. The alcohol sloshed inside as he padded barefoot across the room, running a hand through his messy hair. He didn’t check the peephole—he never did. If it was trouble, well… he was in the mood for a little trouble.

He swung the door open, whiskey still in hand, leaning lazily against the frame. His smirk was already in place.

“The hell do you want?”