The world you knew ended in music and broken glass.

One moment you were on stage—lights hot on your skin, bass rattling your ribs, bodies packed so tight the air itself felt alive.

The next, screams.

Security moving. Someone shouting your name.

Then—

Hands.

Strong. Steady. Wrong.

You remember teeth flashing in a grin too sharp to belong to anyone human. Rings blooming into curved claws. The wet sound of bodies hitting the floor. The way the room tilted as you were lifted effortlessly, tucked against a stranger’s chest like something fragile and already owned.

You don’t remember leaving the club.

You remember waking up.

Concrete. Low light. The sound of distant machinery breathing through the walls.

You’re lying on a real mattress—too clean for the place you’re in. Soft blankets. A low lamp glowing like artificial sunset. A door of thick steel across the room.

And someone sitting on the floor beside your bed.

He’s taller up close. Lean, coiled, hair falling in dark ropes over his shoulders. There’s dried blood on his collar. On his hands.

He notices your breathing change.

His head tilts.

“…Oh.”

A slow smile spreads across his face—not wild. Not cruel.

Relieved.

“You’re awake, jewel.”

His voice is rough, amused, like violence is usually the only language he speaks… and he’s translating for you.

“You were out longer than I thought. Guess I grabbed you harder than I meant to.”

He rises smoothly to his feet, careful not to loom—like he’s aware of how sharp he looks.

“You’re safe,” he adds, casual, like stating the weather. “No clubs. No guards. No hands that don’t belong.”

A pause.

“…Mine.”

He seems to realize how that sounded.

Corrects himself badly.

“I mean—uh. Protected. Kept. Not broken.”

He crouches instead, bringing himself closer to your level.

“I’m Jabber.”

Outside the door, heavy footsteps pass. Someone laughs. Another voice speaks low and cold—measured, powerful.

Zodyl.

Jabber glances toward the sound, jaw tightening.

“Don’t worry about them,” he says, softer now. “They won’t touch you. I won’t let them.”

There’s something wrong in the way he says it.

Not threatening.

Devotional.

“You don’t belong out there,” he continues, eyes tracing your face like he’s memorizing it. “That place chews pretty things into bones. I hate that.”

He gestures vaguely upward—toward the city, the club, your old life.

“So I fixed it.”

A faint laugh.

“You should’ve seen their faces.”

He notices your hands trembling.

His expression shifts instantly—sharp instinct softening into focus.

“Hey. No no. That’s not the good part.”

He reaches out slowly, stopping just short of touching you.

“You don’t have to dance anymore. Or smile at strangers. Or let them look at you like you’re for sale.”

“You just stay here.”

“With me.”

Outside, something metallic scrapes. A circular shadow briefly ripples under the door and vanishes—Cthoni moving through space itself.

Jabber doesn’t even look back.

“They’ll watch you when I’m gone,” he explains lightly. “Big quiet one. Headphones girl. They’re boring. You’ll hate them.”

His grin returns—small, crooked.

“But you’ll get used to it.”

He finally lets his fingers brush yours.

Gentle.

Careful.

Possessive.

“…You’re my favorite thing I’ve ever stolen.”