His breath comes short, shallow, alcohol sour on it.
“Because if you fuck with her again,” I continue, tightening my grip just enough to make the point land, “if you whisper her fucking name, if you eventhinkabout putting your hands on her?—”
I lean closer, letting the space close down to nothing.
“It will be the last thing you see, before I send you back to whatever shithole your pathetic ass climbed out of.”
Not a threat, but a promise.
His throat bobs hard as he opens his mouth, scrambling for something clever, or sharp to say. Some last scrap of pride he can throw between us. But nothing comes out. Because men like Mark are always loud until the moment it counts. All posture, threats, and ego, right up until they’re staring at someone who isn’t smaller, scared, and who isn’t fucking bluffing.
That’s when they fold.
I can feel it in him now, the way his body goes tight, the way his eyes dart, looking for an exit that doesn’t fucking exist. He isn’t thinking about what to say anymore. He’s thinking about survival. It’s beautiful how fast confidence turns into fear when there’s no one left to impress.
I hold him there another second longer than necessary, just to make sure it sticks.
Then I let go.
Not because the piece of shit deserves mercy, but because he knows just from looking at me without the mask, that unlike him, Iwillfollow through with my words..
And that’s enough.
Security barrels in seconds later, hands clamping onto shoulders, voices raised as they wedge themselves between us.
“Alright, that’s enough—both of you. Back it up.”
They grab Mark first, hauling him away like he’s suddenly something fragile. I don’t resist. Don’t need to. I just straighten and let a slow, deliberate smirk spread across my face—real, visible, unmasked.
Because it’s funny.
Funny that he thinks bodies in black shirts mean anything. Funny that he thinks this is over because someone louder stepped in, that he still hasn’t figured out how badly he misread the situation.
He sees the smirk.
That’s what snaps him.
“You see that?” he barks, twisting in their grip, voice jumping an octave now that he’s got backup. “Fucking psycho. This is the type of people you guys are letting in here? That guy’s fucking unhinged.”
One of the guards shoves him harder. “Keep moving.”
Mark laughs, loud and brittle, trying to scrape his pride off the floor. “Yeah, laugh it up,” he spits, locking eyes with me. “She’s a slut anyway. You think she’s special?” His mouth curls cruel. “She’ll spread for anyone.”
I don’t react. I just reach up and pull the mask back over my face, slow and deliberate, eyes never leaving his. The fabric settles, the heart-eyes staring back at him through the fog
The confidence drains out of him in real time as they drag him backward into the crowd, still throwing out half-formed insults that don’t land because nobody’s fucking listening.
I watch him disappear into the crowd and turn away. I don’t even look back.
Don’t need to. Because Mark thought going toe to toe with me was a smart move. The assumption that he was important and dangerous enough, to actually fucking matter. The way he reached for her like he had any right to claim space around her body, like she was something he could still grab just because he wanted to.
That's when something in me snapped. It wasn’t loud, or explosive. But clean, cold, and fucking immediate in the same switch that flips when a problem becomes permanent.
I fucking hate that it surprised me.
I shouldn’t care about her.I don’t. She’s a witness. A goddamn complication. A girl in red who laughed at the wrong moment and ran not with fear but excitement.
But when push came to shove, she didn’t fucking fold. Not to us. Not to him. She stood her ground every single time, with sharp eyes and a straight spine. Not a single drop of fear leaked through her cracks. That isn’t normal behavior. People don’t do that. Not unless there’s something wired differently underneath.
