Because leaving it there felt worse.
My eyes lock with the piece of shit standing toe to toe with me through the mask. I should’ve known he wouldn’t fucking walk away.
Mark, is already half-lit, grin sloppy, drink sloshing in his hand like he thinks he’s earned the right to be loud. He clocks the mask and size, and despite the height I have on him, he’s got enough liquor flowing through him to think he stands a fucking chance of taking me on. That confidence lasts about three seconds.
“Bitch doesn't know what she’s talking about,” he says, laughing like he’s sharing a joke. “She’s just pissed she couldn't keep a guy like me entertained. Don’t get me wrong, she’s a good fuck. Real enthusiastic. But trust me, that gets boring quick. Girls like her always do.”
Something in my chest goes cold.
He keeps going, because men like him mistake silence for permission.
“All that attitude? Just a phase. She plays dangerous, acts like she’s special, but she’ll spread them pretty legs easy enough once you get her high.” He shrugs. “You’ll see. You’ll get bored too buddy.”
I lean down until we’re eye level, slow enough that he has to feel it. Has to look up at me. I don’t rush. I want this to sink in.
“What it sounds like,” I say quietly, flat as concrete, “is that you couldn’t keep your fucking dick in your pants, and she clocked you for exactly what you are.”
His jaw tightens.
“So don’t stand here and run your mouth like she’s the problem,” I continue, voice dropping. “Whatever you two had is dead. You killed it. And with it, you lost every right you think you had. Now, you don’t get to touch her, to talk to her, to even say her name out loud.”
I lean a fraction closer, just enough.
“You don’t get opinions. You don’t get access. And if I hear you disrespect her again,” I add calmly, “I won’t warn you twice.”
I hold his gaze, unblinking.
“Walk away. Now. And consider it the only mercy you’re getting tonight.”
He snorts, chin tipping up as he looks me over like I’m something he can dismiss. “What, you her new babysitter?” His eyes drag past me, scanning the crowd like he’s daring me to block his line of sight, like he still thinks this is a game he’s allowed to play. “You gonna stand there all night pretending your little mask will scare me?”
He steps closer, crowd noise swallowing the space between us, his grin sharp and ugly, fueled by booze and misplaced confidence. “You don’t know shit about her. Or me. So maybe mind your fucking business.”
That’s when it hits me. Not anger, just certainty.
I don’t react at first. I let the silence stretch long enough that his words have nowhere to go, let him sit in it and realize he’s the only one talking. When I finally speak, my voice stays even, calm in a way that doesn’t invite debate.
“Let me repeat myself, because clearly, you’re too fucking dense to understand simple instructions the first time they’re given. You don’t get to talk about her,” I tell him. “You don’t get to think about her. And you sure as fuck don’t get anywhere near her again. Have I made myself clear?”
He laughs, loud and brittle, trying to pull attention back onto himself like that will save him. “Or what?” he says, jabbing a finger toward my chest, “You and your little cupid buddy gonna do something about it?”
I let him finish. Let him enjoy the sound of his own bitchy voice for another second.
Then I reach up and pull the mask off over my head.
The bass keeps pounding. Lights keep flashing. Bodies keep grinding past us like nothing has changed. But Mark’s face does. The grin dies halfway, his eyes dragging over my features as his brain scrambles to recalibrate. This isn’t costume confidence or party bullshit anymore. This is a man who doesn’t need noise to be dangerous.
I lean down until we’re eye level, slow enough that he has time to process it. The tattoos across my face are close now—ink he can’t pretend he imagined. The weight of my stare, flat and unimpressed, no anger to soften it. No smile to misread. Just the kind of calm that only comes from someone who’s already decided how this ends.
“That’s it,” I say quietly. “Look at me, Mark.”
And he does. Because now he knows this isn’t a game he wandered into drunk and loud. He didn’t just run his mouth—he put his hands and his ego in front of the wrong man, in the wrong place, on a night that was already primed to go bad.
I grab his collar and haul him up just enough that his feet barely scrape the floor, dragging his face to within inches of mine. Not rushed, and frantic, but calm and controlled. I want him steady when he hears this. I want the picture burned in clean, sharp detail.
Because this is the moment that sticks.
“Remember this face,” I tell him, my voice level, dead calm, like I’m explaining something simple and unavoidable. “Burn it into whatever part of your brain still works.”
