By now, Donovan was sure he had memorized the way to Moon Brew Café. So, once he stepped out of the stifling club, he put away his phone and let the cold night air wash over him. It felt refreshing, almost grounding—until it wasn’t. His head swam slightly, his thoughts growing fuzzy. Maybe that drink had contained a little alcohol after all.

Still, he pressed on, distracted by the sky above. When he finally lowered his gaze, he found himself in front of a brick building standing solemnly beneath the pale glow of a hazy moon. A thick scent of chocolate hung in the air, cloyingly sweet—so sweet it almost felt unnatural. Beneath it, something sharper lingered, metallic and strange, though Donovan didn’t notice.

He barely registered the oddities. The arched entrance that seemed just a little too dark. The festive banners swaying gently in a wind that didn’t exist. A clock tower looming overhead, its face frozen in time, long since abandoned. But he wasn’t paying attention. His mind was elsewhere, drifting into another daydream.

A warm café. A mocha shared with his crush. Maybe they were sitting close, a soft blanket draped over them, talking about the latest movie they’d watched together.

Donovan sighed, letting the comforting fantasy take over—until a loud motorcycle roared in the distance, yanking him back to reality.

He blinked.

How long had he been standing there? And more importantly… Why did something suddenly feel off?

Pushing the unease aside, he stepped forward. One step. Then another. But by the third, something clicked in his mind, sobering him instantly.

This wasn’t a café. It was a weird, abandoned place. And he was standing inside it. His breath hitched.

The dimly lit interior stretched before him, vast and empty—too empty. Rusted beams loomed overhead, casting jagged shadows against the cracked concrete floor. A few crates sat stacked in the corners, the kind that, in movies, always contained something illegal.

Oh no.

This looked exactly like the kind of place where the mob made their shady deals in his favorite films. This definitely wasn’t the famous Moon Brew Café, was it?

His fanboy logic kicked in immediately, running through every trope he had ever seen. He had wandered into a dangerous place. And now… the dangerous people had to kill him. That was how it worked, wasn’t it? He was the clueless civilian who had seen too much. The one who got disposed of before the real action even started.

A warm tear slipped down his cheek, stark against the icy grip of fear in his chest. Honestly? There was a part of him—small, buried deep—that whispered maybe this wasn’t the worst outcome. At least he wouldn’t have to sit through his exams next week.

But that fleeting thought was nothing against the sheer terror flooding his system. His body trembled, a cold shiver running down his spine. He wanted to move, to run, but his legs refused to obey.

Instead, he prayed.

To every god in the sky, to the universe itself—praying that no one inside had seen him. That he might somehow, impossibly, escape this hellish place with his life.

He closed his eyes and took a deep breath to try and calm himself, but that only made him more aware of his situation; that delicious chocolatey smell was gone, replaced by the foul smell of something metallic. He didn’t dare imagine what it could be, clinging to the hope that it was just the rust of abandoned old things—and not blood.

But before the tears could start flowing again, a hushed feminine voice broke the silence.

It sounded far away. 

Relief washed over him. Maybe—just maybe—the bad guys were still on the other side of the warehouse. Maybe they hadn’t seen him yet. Maybe he still had a chance.

Slowly, he lowered himself to the ground, willing his limbs to move as quietly as possible. Crawling his way out seemed like his best option. If he could just slip away before anyone noticed—

Clang! A metallic crash shattered the quiet.

Donovan’s whole body jolted in fear. Instinctively, he squeezed his eyes shut, as if that might somehow make him invisible. His heart pounded so loudly it drowned out every rational thought.

A voice followed. Low. Raspy. "Who’s there?" It was a man’s voice—no, a handsome man’s voice. The kind that belonged to a dangerous gangster with a tragic backstory, the perfect antihero. The one everyone fell in love with, his fanboy brain provided against his will.

But he was too terrified to focus on anything beyond the fact that the shadows were talking to him now.

"Ah, I- I- I- My name is Do-do-Donovan Jones" He stuttered, his brain short circuiting. "I- I stumbled here by accident, please, please let me go."

A figure emerged from the shadows. For a moment, Donovan thought it was the same man who had spoken earlier—but no, the face didn’t match the voice. This one didn’t look very intimidating.

His dark hair, slightly tousled and falling just past his shoulders, gave him a laid-back yet untamed vibe. But his golden-yellow eyes were sharp, intense, glinting under the dim light like a predator sizing up his prey.

Still, he looked too young to be part of an evil organization—or at least, Donovan wouldn’t have written a mobster character like that.

The young man stepped fully into the light, his gaze locked onto Donovan’s trembling form.

He knelt down, peering at him with something between amusement and curiosity. "Let me think about that," he said with a laugh.

Donovan tried to stand but failed miserably—his legs wouldn’t cooperate. The most he could manage was sitting up, arms shaking as he braced himself against the cold floor. Fear, mixed with whatever he had accidentally ingested, had paralyzed him. Had his drink been tampered with?

By the time he managed to bring his brain back to reality, the mysterious figure had already melted into the shadows.

Then, out of nowhere, a low snarl echoed from the darkness. "Yeah, that’s a definite nope. My boss won’t let you go, Donovan Jones."

A sigh escaped him. Great. Of course, it wasn’t the handsome, raspy-voiced guy who delivered the line. Curse every god he had prayed to.

Was his life really that worthless? Was he really going to die here, without ever publishing a book? He still had so much to do! His mind raced for solutions, strategies, anything—but his legs betrayed him again. He couldn’t even stand, let alone run.

He was spiraling. He hadn’t noticed it at first, not until the quiet murmurs in the warehouse stopped. Everything had gone completely silent. Was he dead already?

He pinched himself just to check, but before he could even register the pain, the voice from the shadows interrupted.

Maybe they thought he was too wasted to remember anything in the morning. Maybe they just didn’t see him as a real threat. Either way, they let him go, but not without a warning: Never tell anyone what you saw or heard tonight.

Donovan wasn’t about to look a gift horse in the mouth. The second they gave him an out, he bolted. His legs, useless just moments ago, finally found their strength, carrying him as fast as they could out of the warehouse, out of the eerie darkness, and back into the neon glow of the city. 

He didn’t dare look back.

Only now did he realize how absurd it was that he had taken one look at that warehouse and somehow thought it was a cozy café.

He ran and ran, the cold air stinging his face, slowly calming his nerves. But he only truly felt safe when he burst back into The Star Fall and saw his ridiculous group of friends partying like they hadn’t even noticed his absence.

He had never been more thankful to see his friends simply being themselves. Maggie had finally settled on a girl and was flirtatiously talking to her, the stranger perched comfortably on her lap while sipping a Strawberry Daiquiri. Mark had found a new friend to take colorful shots with, their laughter loud and uninhibited. Meanwhile, Jax and Sofía were completely lost in each other, passionately making out in a dimly lit booth at the far end of the bar.

Donovan had never been so relieved to be in a club. He needed this—needed the noise, the chaos, the mindless distractions to push the lingering fear from his system.

Luckily, it didn’t take long before a handsome stranger approached him, cutting through the neon haze of the club with an easy smile.

"You look like you could use a drink." His voice was smooth, confident, and Donovan didn’t hesitate. Hell yes, he could use a drink. He accepted the offer without a second thought.

Hours passed in a blur—laughter, shared glances over the rims of shot glasses, fleeting touches that sent a pleasant buzz through him, separate from the alcohol. The stranger was charming, magnetic even, and Donovan let himself fall into the moment. Maybe he flirted more than usual. Maybe he let his guard down a little too much.

It didn’t matter. He felt safe.

When the group finally decided to call it a night, they were too intoxicated to drive. They piled into a cab, grateful that the club allowed them to leave their car overnight without extra charges.

Then, morning came with a pounding headache. A hazy recollection of the night before. And a sinking realization—

This wasn’t his bed.

Donovan blinked against the sunlight streaming through unfamiliar curtains, the disorienting state leaving him questioning everything. He never drank excessively. Last night had been no exception… had it?

Then why did his memory feel like a shattered mirror, pieces missing?