The club lights blasted on. Customers' eyes whipped between me and the guy I'd just tangled with.

On the stretcher, he lay with a smear of dried blood on his forehead—after I smashed him with a bottle when he wouldn't stop licking me, even when I told him to.

"Excuse me, please give way to the paramedics." My manager pushed the bystanders back.

I blinked at the chaos, my heart still hammering from the scene as I leaned weakly against a wall with my hands clasped behind me. 

Customers are always right. According to my manager. My thoughts raced at the thought of losing my job.

"Way to go, Finch." Dalton's voice hissed close to my ear, making me nearly jump out of my skin.

"Where the hell did you come from?" I slouched in embarrassment. Then I remembered. "This is your fault—you told me to go there." My finger jabbed close enough to nearly poke his eye.

He arched a brow, mock-nodding along like I was reading him bedtime stories. "Right... He wants to see you, but you almost killed him. Was I the one who raised you to be feral? Cause if I were—then I'm sorry."

I wanted to shoot back, but he clamped a huge hand over my face.. 

"You bastard—when I get you—I'd skin you alive!" I threw hands at him, grunting as I tried to reach him, but he held my face so tight I couldn't escape his grip.

He was silent for a moment, then he leaned closer to me when I stopped. "If I were you, I'd behave when my angry manager is right behind me."

He let go of me. And I turned when I realized he wasn't joking.

The manager stood a few feet away, arms crossed tightly.

Heat crawled up my neck; every excuse died in my throat as I shrank under his gaze.

"You're fired."

That's the only thing he said, but I felt like he was not changing his mind, even if I begged.

"What about my paycheck for today?"

He turned back without another word and left me, judged and looked down on by the customers.

I almost teared up, all embarrassed and worried sick. How am I supposed to calm the landlord now?

Whispers broke out like static. My stomach lurched; I couldn't even lift my head without feeling small.

Forced my eyes over the crowd, feeling each gaze like a spotlight on my shame until Dalton stepped in.

"The show is over. We're now temporarily closed."

His broad frame and steady glare cleared the crowd without a word.

Dalton waited for everyone to shuffle out before slamming the door. The silence that followed was suffocating as he only looked at me without sympathy. He's always like that—the type of friend who doesn't care but won't judge you either.

I got used to it, but I wanted him to help me for once.

"It was just protecting myself," I muttered. 

He gave a small, humorless smile. "This is a club. Drunks, junkies, assholes. That's the job. You don't get applause for surviving it."

"Dalton—"

His jaw flexed before he looked off to the side.

"Go home."

It hit harder than the manager's glare.

I wanted to argue and defend myself, but I couldn't.

I stood there for a moment, letting the silence wash over me, before shoving my hands in my pockets and leaving.

My hand touched a metal object in my pocket, and I took it out.

While walking down the empty street, I flicked my stolen lighter open and shut.

When he lay unconscious after I hit him, my instinct told me to pat him dry. But I didn't find his wallet—only this heavy golden lighter. I don't think this would cost much, but it feels better to pay back.

The flame's click was the only steady thing in a universe that never let me breathe. I stared at it; my thumb pressed onto the metal wheel until it burned.

But...

What was I even holding onto it for? A poetic reminiscence of harassment?

With a sharp flick, I threw it down the pavement. It nearly rolled into a sewer, rattling until the sound died in the silence.

RIIING—

I flinched, grabbing my phone out of my pocket.

There was a text from my landlord.

[landlord • 12:39 AM] guess what?

He then sent a photo of my stuff, all broken and dirty, inside a trash bin.

[landlord • 12:41 AM] your stuff's in the bin. deal with it.

I tried texting him back, but he had already blocked me before I could even hit send.

The phone turned heavy in my hand. I dropped my gaze to my shoes, trying to steady my racing thoughts.

My mind started spitting out the ugliest options, each one worse than the last.

I stood there, chewing on the thought, my chest sinking heavier with each one.

For a second, I thought I might drop and let the cold finish me.

The street had gone still. Even the wind paused. Then—click.

I felt someone standing close behind me.

A sudden whiff of vanilla sliced through the air. When I looked up, I saw the lighter now in someone's hand, as it glowed dangerously close to my face.

I turned. The bloodied man stood inches away.

His eyes softened behind his glasses; his smile was almost genuine. But something inside me screamed wrong.

He held up the lighter. The metal reflected the warm streetlight, and my stomach dropped when I saw the name etched on its side:

Akio Watanabe.

His rough fingers glided through mine, intertwining until our hands pressed around the lighter. The cold metal bit against my palm; every line of his grip forced me to hold it with him.

He leaned close to my ear, and a drop of blood from his forehead landed on my shoulder. My pulse spiked at the metallic scent mingling with vanilla.

My hands quivered on his. My knees folded as the surrounding air thickened with threat.

I held my breath as his lips lingered near my ear. A soft rasp caressed my skin before he opened his mouth.

"Boo."