The city of Qorluna pulsed with life, but John kept his head low, trying to remain detached. Sweat, exhaust fumes, and a sickly sweetness hung in the air as vehicles snarled and honked, fighting for space in the gridlock. Beneath the neon skyline, John felt the weight of something ancient pressing down on him—a magic woven into the bones of the city itself, seeping through every crack around Club Lust.
Stepping out of the limo, John felt eyes on him, the crowd jostling for a better view of billionaire Eric Larson. Larson's sleek, artificial smile radiated confidence, but John’s thoughts were elsewhere. He knew he didn’t belong here, his knuckles itching for a fight, not a night babysitting the rich and careless.
Peace was a lie these people lapped up like extra doses of dopamine. John had tried to chase it himself, but the world of Erylis didn’t care about what people wanted. Now, he just tried to forget, yet ghosts from his past trailed him like shadows—living whispers refusing to forgive his sins. The dishonorable discharge from the Sylverdol military had left a stain on his record, but it was his own past actions that still clawed at him.
“Mr. Larson!” boomed a familiar voice. “Everything’s ready for tonight.” Richard jogged down the red carpet, his athletic build poorly concealed by an ill-fitting suit. John folded his arms, looking on in jeans and a black polo. They weren’t suited for corporate attire, and only John admitted it.
Richard grinned, shaking Larson’s hand. “How’s my man treating you? I told you, no one tougher for the job than Johnny here.”
Larson patted John’s arm. “Exactly what I need as head of security.”
John rolled his eyes. “Haven’t accepted the job yet,” he muttered.
Richard just grinned, ignoring the comment. That was his style—always upbeat, always assuming things would go smoothly. They’d met at an arms convention in Riverbend. Both ex-marines, they’d connected quickly, and knowing John’s habit of drifting from one job to the next, Richard had been tossing gigs John’s way ever since. The work fit his skill set, even if few gigs had ended well. He hoped tonight would be different, but experience taught him not to get his hopes up.
A commotion at the edge of the crowd drew John's attention. People were jostled and angry shouts were hurled as a young woman ducked underneath the velvet ropes that held the masses back. She darted across the empty space, behind Richard who cried at her in surprise to stop. John lunged for her arm, but she slipped away like smoke, ducking and twisting out of reach
“Hey!”
John shouted in frustration but she disappeared in moments, coat tail disappearing between a couple pushed roughly aside in her flight. The crowd buzzed with angry shouts and the metallic tang of spilled drinks as she vanished into the sea of bodies He heard a distant laugh and was shocked to see the woman’s head pop up from behind the crowd, blowing him a kiss before falling away. John clenched his fists, his jaw tight. He hated it when people slipped through his fingers—literally. The number of people was the problem, packed into the cities like sardines in a can. Too many people to follow, too many opportunities for the unexpected.
A loud sigh of impatience sounded from the limousine, followed by a leg stretching out. John squinted at the harsh neon lights overhead—a reminder, as if he needed one, that he was back in this world of luxury and excess.
“Aw. No help for little me,” a taunting voice drifted from the limo.
“You don’t employ me, Emily,” John replied flatly, barely glancing at her as she stepped out with careless grace.
She shot him a mocking glance, pressing herself against the oblivious Larson. “What happened to not needing the money? Down on your luck?”
The words stung, but he’d grown used to swallowing her barbs. He shot a dark glare at Richard, who mouthed an apologetic “I didn’t know” from behind their backs. John shut his eyes, breathing deeply as the throbbing at his temples intensified. This was the problem with dating within certain circles. When things ended badly, escaping was nearly impossible—at least, not without cutting ties altogether. Richard had been a friend, a neutral ground, until now. Or so he’d thought.
Thinking back on the lavish gifts and expensive expectations that had come with Emily, he supposed he should have seen this coming. Still, it was the cheating that really got to him. The memory still lingered—twisted sheets, broken furniture, and Nick’s face twisted in pain when he’d caught them together. Maybe John should pay Nick a visit, just to see if the hospital had managed to piece him back together. Some betrayals deserved reminders.
He stiffly followed the trio down the red carpet, cameras flashing on either side. The club’s grand opening would undoubtedly make the morning news. Double doors opened, swallowing them into a dazzling maze of lights and mirrors. The dance floor stretched out before them—a pulsing sea of bodies beneath flashing neon and mirrored walls.
The bass-heavy beats seemed to press the breath from John’s chest. Above, dancers swayed in suspended cages, their movements in sync with the relentless rhythm. The music was loud, oppressive, and the heat rose around him. Detached, he watched it unfold, an observer in a world that wasn’t his own.
Richard led the group across the dance floor and up a grand, winding staircase to the 2nd floor. They walked up stairs large enough to fit four men across. John sped up, putting distance between himself and the others. Emily’s smirk didn’t faze him—he was here to do a job, not get caught up in whatever games she was playing.
The second floor was a world of sleek black leather and chrome, where plush velvet ropes separated VIP booths and a glass wall overlooked the frenetic energy below. The contrast was stark—a quiet, elevated haven for those wanting to watch without being touched by those below. Richard threw open another set of double doors with a flourish, ushering everyone in. He closed the doors and the music cut off abruptly.
John rolled his eyes as Eric and Emily gawked over the extravagance. He knew better than they did that Larson’s fancy decor wasn’t the real selling point here. With trouble brewing in the city, the crowd wanted assurance, not just ambiance. That’s what Richard had gambled on.
The office was a shrine to Larson’s ego though, every inch filled with meticulously chosen furnishings that exuded wealth and power. Deep mahogany bookcases lined the walls, filled with volumes that looked untouched, more for show than for reading. Plush leather chairs sat across from a long, polished desk, their backs stitched with intricate designs that hinted at custom craftsmanship. The rich scent of leather and wood polish hung in the air, mingling with a faint trace of expensive cologne—like the room had been designed not just to impress, but to intimidate.
A colossal fireplace stretched to the ceiling, crowned by an equally over-sized self-portrait of Larson, painted in dark oils with an almost regal air. He’d been depicted in a suit, chin lifted, as if he were presiding over some kingdom. John smirked, resisting the urge to roll his eyes. Why didn’t the man just name it “Eric Larson’s Club”? It was like Larson had tried to carve his legacy into the room itself, just in case anyone might forget who owned it.
Larson had hired Richard to run the club, but not without a list of peculiarities that had given John and Richard a good laugh. A hidden entrance for mistresses was installed as requested, and the glass wall could be blacked out with a button to shield the VIPs from prying eyes. It seemed security wasn’t just about brawls.
Richard threw his arms wide. “So, Mr. Larson, what do you think?”
Larson looked around, wide-eyed. “Not too much?”
“Of course not! And with Johnny here, you won’t have a thing to worry about.”
John held back an eye roll. That was Richard—selling dreams, no matter how precarious. Larson’s private entrance and blackout glass might impress, but when trouble came, John knew he’d be the one dealing with it.
John found a corner of the office with a view of the club entrance. People rushed in, most heading straight for the bar, jostling for the servers’ attention. A few lingered just inside, eyes scanning the room with a calculated slowness. These he kept in mind, ready to intercept if anyone got the wrong idea about what “exclusive” really meant.
“Johnny!” Richard’s voice pulled him back into the quiet room. He had a bottle out, already pouring drinks with an eager smile.
“What did I tell you? This place is going to be a gold mine!” Larson said, barely containing his excitement as he waved his hands toward the crowd cramming into the club below. “Once this place is running, I’ll be able to say goodbye to my father’s money for good.”
Richard caught John’s expression and chuckled, grabbing his arm and pulling him away from Larson. “This all came out of his own pocket. I told him if he screws with my profit, he’d do well to remember what happened to the last guy who tried to mess with you.”
John rolled his eyes. “You really need to stop using me as a threat. I don’t care about any of this. The only reason I’m here is because you’re a manipulative son of a bitch.”
“Oh, come on. Don’t tell me you weren’t going out of your mind with boredom. What’d you spend the last three weeks doing—charity work in the slums by day and bar-hopping by night? ‘Oh, please tell that handsome blond man to come back soon!’” he added in a high-pitched voice, fluttering his hand for emphasis. John scowled; he knew exactly who Richard was imitating.
“I’m going to check the perimeter.”
“You’ve got a team for that,” Richard replied, raising an eyebrow.
John sighed, exasperation evident in his tone. “You specifically wanted me nearby. So, all this fuss about a security team—are those men even real, or just actors to get me here?”
Richard guided him further into the room, away from the noise. “The team’s real, John. I’ve got something else lined up if you get bored again—same crew, all on board. But when you wander off like that, no one’s actually watching Eric. The kid’s got a bit of a bad rep. Any place he’s at is likely the first place trouble will hit. He’s got a real mouth on him when he’s drunk, and we need to keep Mr. Money Bags happy.”
John rolled his eyes, muttering as the noise-canceling doors closed behind him. “Great. So, not body guarding—babysitting. I’m not cleaning up if he starts throwing things and making a mess.”
“Aw, come on, man,” Richard said with a grin.
John shot him a look. “I’m charging you double.”
“Done.” Richard clapped him on the back, his grin widening.
John shoved Richard’s hand off and strode back outside, wading into the noise and flashing lights. The club was filling fast, and the VIP sections were nearly all claimed. Leaning against the railing, he scanned the growing flood of people, noting those whose interest in the crowd seemed more intent than casual. He felt a grim satisfaction as a few of them glanced up, recognizing him immediately as the larger threat.
Bayer, a large man nearly equal to John in size, nodded at him while shadowing his own employers for the night—an elegantly dressed couple out for a night on the town. Nearby, another security guard quickly pulled a young man aside, whispering urgently until, with a fearful glance toward John, the young man nodded and followed the guard out of the club.
John chuckled quietly, his gaze continuing its sweep of the room. A teenage girl in a glittering dress danced on the floor, the lights catching the sequins as she spun with her friends. But it was the man lingering at the edge of the room who caught his attention, eyes fixed on the girl’s group with an intensity that went beyond casual interest.
Sensing John’s attention, the man looked up and met his gaze. John breathed deeply, feeling a rush of heat rising to his cheeks as memories of Emily and Nick surfaced, clenching his fists against the railing. He felt the familiar, wild power flare, and a brief red glow radiated from his eyes, blending with the pulsing lights around them as he fought to keep it beneath the surface. It was subtle enough to look like just another flash on the dance floor to everyone else, but unmistakable to the man below.
The man’s face paled, his body tensing as he realized the warning. He nodded, taking a slow step back, and John’s eyes faded back to their normal green. A quiet message delivered—and received.
John looked around cautiously, surprised to find someone else watching him. A stunning woman in a bright turquoise dress had claimed one of the VIP tables, smiling coyly as she brought a vibrant pink drink to her lips, her eyes dancing with mischief.
Damn, he’d been seen. Subtlety had never been his strong suit, and it was a wonder it hadn’t gotten him killed by now. He felt a prickle of unease as he made his way down the stairs. It was always unsettling when people picked up on his magic. You could never predict how they’d react—or worse, who they’d tell.
Richard had asked him about it outright one day, catching John so off guard that he’d just nodded in surprise. It was considered very, very poor manners to ask something like that. Magic was personal, nearly taboo, and most forms required physical touch to affect anything beyond the user’s body. It made Richard’s casual, hands-on demeanor even more unsettling—especially to those who knew how the world really worked. Magic could be dangerous.
In the back of John’s mind, he heard faint, distant screams and caught the acrid scent of burning flesh. His jaw clenched, and he shook his head, forcing the memories back down.
He tried to stay mobile, pushing past the cheering crowd as people danced on and off the floor. He’d met his so-called “team” earlier at Larson’s residence and could see them now, scattered strategically across the room. At least he wasn’t solely responsible for everyone here tonight; Richard could dodge his own bullets. Not that John expected anything major to happen tonight.
A case of literary theft: this tale is not rightfully on Amazon; if you see it, report the violation.
He made a round of the area, weaving through tables and booths, keeping a watchful eye on the patrons.
“Have fun bullying the kids from up there?” a gruff voice sounded from behind a column.
John groaned, turning to find Clayton waiting with a wry smile. The man wore a dark, long coat and a cowboy hat pulled low over his face, casting shadows across his features.
“Zresh is a regular at some of the places I’ve been to,” John muttered. “He likes to get… handsy. Best to nip that one before it becomes a problem.”
“Uh-huh,” Clayton replied, eyeing him from beneath the brim of his hat. A soft cloud of smoke drifted up from the edge.
John raised an eyebrow. “You know they have no smoking signs here, right?”
“Uh-huh,” Clayton repeated, a soft orange glow briefly illuminating his face before fading back into shadow.
“And what are you doing here? Dusting off the dance shoes?” John asked, eyeing Clayton, who was watching the same group of girls Zresh had been eyeing earlier. Zresh was now very conspicuously ignoring them.
Clayton shrugged, gesturing toward the girl he was watching. “Doing a favor for a friend. He’s got a soft spot for his daughter, and she wanted a night out for her birthday.”
“He’s got the soft spot?” John chuckled.
Clayton grunted, noncommittal, and John nodded in amusement. “Hope you have an easy night.”
“Boys!” shouted a voice suddenly in John’s ear.
He felt a sudden weight on his shoulder as a woman threw herself between him and Clayton, nearly pulling them both off balance before they managed to steady themselves. She wrapped an arm around each of them in a tight hug, lifting her feet off the ground as she held on. Her form-fitting, shiny dress caught the club lights and lasers, reflecting them obscenely across the room.
This right here was why you never mixed family and business. This was why you never, ever told people what you were doing. Why had he mentioned the club opening to Max again?
Clayton gruffly shrugged her off and took a step back, reclaiming his personal space. “Maxine,” he grumbled, clearly annoyed.
“Aw, don’t be like that, Clay! We’re here to have fun, not work. Or at least, I am.” She gave them both a mischievous grin. “Sucks to be you two.” With a laugh, she darted off, disappearing into another group and waving at a friend as she melted into the crowd.
John rolled his eyes at his younger cousin’s antics, ready to resume his rounds, but Clayton caught his arm.
“Could use some help with something if you’ve got the time.”
John cocked his head, questioning, and Clayton said, “Big Lou’s. Tomorrow at six?”
John nodded. “Sure. I can be there.”
Clayton let his hand drop, giving a short nod. “Thanks.”
Noticing Richard waving over the railing from the second floor, John sighed and gave Clayton a quick farewell before heading up to rejoin Mr. Larson. As he made his way through the crowd, he couldn’t shake the feeling that his night—and maybe tomorrow—were just beginning to get complicated.
As John ascended the steps, he spotted Richard at a nearby table, speaking animatedly with the beautiful woman who had noticed him earlier. Eric and Emily were there, too, mingling with a handful of men who all seemed captivated by her. The woman exuded an aura of command and allure, her beauty both striking and undeniable. She moved with a slow, almost predatory grace, and when her eyes met his, he felt a twinge of apprehension. Stay focused, John reminded himself. Don’t do anything stupid.
“Hello there,” she said smoothly, her voice low and inviting. “I’m Charlotte. Your friends here were just telling me all about you.”
John’s brow furrowed as he glanced at Eric. “Mr. Larson?” he asked, a note of confusion in his voice.
Richard grinned and moved in to hug Charlotte warmly. “This one’s always joking,” he said, gesturing at John. “Charlotte here is one of Sylverdol’s premier fashion designers, and she owns over seventy percent of the city’s top real estate.”
John raised his eyebrows, unsure how to respond. Beautiful and powerful—a dangerous combination in anyone. Charlotte covered her mouth as if feigning shyness, but her eyes sparkled with mischief as she took a deliberate step toward him. Her presence seemed to command the room, making even the pulsing beat of the club feel muted and distant.
“You know,” she continued, her voice a playful purr, “it’s been such a long night. I could really use a strong man to take me home.” Her fingers trailed along his arm, sending a chill through him. He tensed instinctively, feeling the weight of her gaze as she sized him up, like a predator assessing its prey.
Caught off guard by her boldness, John tried to maintain his composure. “Uh... I’m on the job, ma’am,” he managed, willing his voice to remain steady.
She gasped in mock horror, drawing the attention of those nearby. “Ma’am? Oh, I’m not that old,” she said, pressing a hand to her chest as if wounded. Her eyes held his, a hint of amusement flickering there. “Well, now you’ll have to make it up to me. I’ll have Richard here arrange for a little more time with you... somewhere private, perhaps?”
She winked, her laughter light and confident, as if she could already sense his discomfort. John could feel his cheeks grow warm under her gaze, and for a moment, he was keenly aware of the eyes watching them, of the low hum of conversation punctuated by laughter and the clinking of glasses. The crowd felt distant, his senses narrowing in on Charlotte, whose proximity seemed to block out everything else.
He shifted his weight, his fingers tightening slightly at his sides, unsure of what to say. She had thrown him off balance effortlessly, leaving him feeling exposed in a way he hadn’t experienced in years. He reminded himself again of the mission, of his role here, but something about Charlotte made that focus feel tenuous, like she was daring him to break.
Charlotte’s gaze lingered for a moment longer before she turned back to Richard with a knowing smile. John took a slow breath, steadying himself as the noise of the club seeped back in, and he realized with a sinking feeling that this was just the beginning of whatever game she intended to play.
As Charlotte turned back to Richard, still smiling, John sensed a shift nearby. Emily’s posture stiffened, her gaze fixed on him with a hard edge, her lips pressed into a thin line. She leaned closer to Eric, but her eyes flicked repeatedly toward John and Charlotte, her expression betraying a flash of irritation.
Well, well, John thought, fighting back a smirk. He hadn’t expected Emily to react, but seeing the jealousy in her eyes gave him a quiet, unexpected satisfaction. He hadn’t invited Charlotte’s attention—if anything, he’d tried to keep his distance—but Emily’s obvious discomfort felt like a small, unearned victory. For once, it wasn’t him tangled up in her games. He almost felt the urge to thank Charlotte for the unintended bonus.
“The giant’s mine!” Larson bellowed, shoving Emily aside as he lurched to his feet, his words slurring together. His cheeks were flushed, and his eyes were glassy—clearly, he was determined to consume every last drop of liquor in the place. He staggered forward, shoving past two men who shot him dark looks as he passed, while Emily brushed herself off with an annoyed huff. Charlotte chuckled softly, her amusement evident as Larson made a stumbling beeline straight for John.
His movements grew more erratic, a hazard to everyone around him. Richard caught John’s eye, raising his hands in a helpless shrug, as if to apologize but immediately started to back away, hoping to duck out. John shot him a glare, irritation simmering beneath his steady gaze. This was all your idea, he thought, his expression making it clear that he held Richard fully responsible for this mess.
Larson, oblivious to John’s growing irritation, laughed and started throwing clumsy “air punches” just inches from John’s face. His drunken grin grew wider, and he swayed, his arms flailing in John’s direction.
“C’mo’n, Mr. Maaarine,” Eric slurred, trying to focus on John with a bleary look. “I bet I could take ya!”
John clenched his jaw, struggling to keep his patience. “What are you trying to prove, sir?” he muttered, just loud enough for Larson to hear.
The scene stirred a familiar frustration in him, reminding him of nights spent in dingy clubs back in his hometown. It always seemed to end the same way—someone got drunk, and someone else wanted to fight. I’m done with this, he thought, casting another sharp glare in Richard’s direction, only to find him ducking behind the crowd, eager to avoid getting involved. The idiot was enjoying this!
Larson, seemingly oblivious to the tension, leaned in with a tipsy grin, attempting to lighten the mood. “Hey, Johnny!” he hiccuped, barely able to stand upright. “Why’d the scarecrow win an award, huh?”
John took a slow breath, forcing himself to humor the man if only to keep things under control. “I don’t know, sir. Why?”
Larson let out a loud, almost childlike laugh. “Because he was... outstanding in his field!”
He slapped his knee, roaring with laughter as if it was the funniest thing in the world. Just then, he stumbled, and Richard—who hadn’t quite escaped yet—quickly stepped forward, catching him by the arm to steady him.
John shook his head, his gaze hardening as he looked at Richard, who offered a sheepish shrug before mouthing, Sorry, man, and edging away again, leaving John to deal with the situation. John’s patience wore thin, and he felt a prickling irritation claw at him. He wasn’t here to babysit some spoiled trust-fund kid playing at being tough.
Charlotte watched it all with a bemused smile, her eyes flicking between John and Larson, clearly entertained by the spectacle. John set his jaw, reminded of just how out of place he was here.
“Get the drunk outta here!” one of the big men Larson had shoved yelled, his face twisted with anger.
“What did you say?” Larson shot back, lurching toward the man with a wild look in his eyes. “You get the hell out of my club!”
The room tensed, the energy shifting sharply as Larson’s unsteady movement knocked over the ice bucket, sending a spray of ice across the table and dousing the men nearby. Charlotte leaned back with practiced ease, avoiding the icy mess, her expression unfazed, almost amused. She barely glanced at the chaos, her lips curving slightly as if she was enjoying the show.
The man Larson had shouted at stood up, reaching for him with a dangerous gleam in his eye. John stepped forward instantly, pushing between them, and caught the man’s arm with a firm grip, forcing him back. In one fluid motion, John turned, hooked his arm around Larson, and pulled him sharply behind, causing him to stumble and trip to the floor.
“Back off,” John commanded, his voice cold and steady, as he glanced at the other man.
The man sneered, brushing ice from his lap. “Control your boss,” he spat, glancing at John with barely concealed contempt.
John shot him a hard look. “That’s what I’m doing. Stand down.”
The man’s eyes narrowed, and he didn’t move. The tension between them crackled in the air, each holding his ground. Then, the man’s expression hardened as he took a step forward, undeterred. A sense of unease flickered across the room, and even Richard, who had been hanging back, looked on with a growing concern.
Larson, still unsteady, growled from the floor. “You... you don’t know who I am!” He struggled to his feet, his fists clenching as he glared at the man who’d dared challenge him. “Nobody disrespects me in my club!”
John clenched his jaw, seeing where this was headed. He pulled Larson back up, gripping his arm tightly. “Let it go, Larson,” he muttered, but Larson jerked free, his face red with rage and liquor-fueled bravado.
The big man cracked his knuckles, his gaze locking onto Larson with a lethal intensity. “Oh, you’re dead, princess,” he growled, taking a menacing step forward.
John’s muscles tensed, his instincts kicking in. He set his stance, positioning himself in front of Larson, ready to intercept the brewing storm. The other men at the table rose, and the room went still, a hush settling as people watched, waiting to see who would make the first move.
Charlotte sipped her drink, her gaze sharp and entertained, as if she was eagerly awaiting the inevitable clash.
John took a steadying breath, his eyes fixed on the man in front of him, every sense on high alert. The fight was coming, and he’d be damned if he wasn’t ready for it.
The angry man stalked up, towering over John by a few inches. “Move. Now.”
With a detached calm, John reached into his pocket, pulled out a cigarette, and flicked his lighter. He didn’t want this, but that didn’t mean he’d back down. Inhaling slowly, he felt the chemicals scrape down his throat, steadying him. Eric’s outraged shouts about the smoking rules barely registered. John reached back, gave Larson a firm shove, sending him sprawling over a table and landing between the couches with a clatter.
The man didn’t even blink. Drunk and enraged, his eyes were locked on Eric, his fists clenched. It was clear: he wouldn’t be satisfied until Larson was a pile of broken limbs behind him. John could step aside, let him have at it, but he’d given his word tonight. He had a job, and that was enough to keep him rooted in place.
He took another drag, then exhaled, blowing smoke straight into the man’s face. “Got my orders.”
For a split second, everything went still. Then, a voice slithered into his mind, dark and taunting, like a cold hand tightening around his spine. Eerily... familiar.
“Don’t lie, John. You need this. You live for this.”
No, I don’t.
The angry man swung at John, his fist clumsy with rage. John ducked easily beneath the blow, stepping forward as he drove his own fist into the man’s throat. The man staggered back, gasping, clutching at his neck as he struggled for air. John’s second punch came hard and fast, crashing into the side of the man’s skull. He crumpled to the floor, the thud barely audible over the bass of the now-muted music.
Heat surged through John, the wild magic bubbling beneath the surface, pushing to break free. He could feel it lapping against his control, the energy prickling around him. He knew if he let it out here, it’d rip through the entire club. Fighting for calm, he extended his senses, picking up the faint, pulsing warmth from the other magic users in the room, their powers radiating like dim lights in the darkness.
A gunshot split the air, cutting through the silence. John felt a searing, white-hot pain tear into his shoulder. The pain blanked his mind for a moment, his vision blurring as he turned. His gaze landed on the man’s friend, standing rigid with panic, a smoking gun still clenched in his shaking hands.
John closed the distance between them in a heartbeat, grabbing the man by the front of his shirt and hauling him forward. The man’s eyes, glowing faintly with magic, widened in fear. His power crackled just beneath the surface, but it didn’t matter now. He’d attacked John, and he’d made his choice.
John pushed the gun to the side as it fired again, the shot reverberating through the room. With a vicious twist, he drove his knee into the man’s leg, feeling the bone snap with a sickening pop before the mans hands could find him. The man howled, the gun clattering from his grip as he stumbled. John moved quickly, twisting his arm behind him, grabbing his other wrist by the jacket sleeves, and wrenching them both up and back. The man’s shoulders dislocated with a sickening crack, and he screamed, falling forward as John released him with a shove.
The voice in John’s mind laughed, reveling in the destruction. They tried to kill you. But they failed. They’ll never get the chance again, it sneered, pressing him to keep going, to finish the job.
John stood over the broken man, chest heaving, barely aware of the two remaining men backing off into the shadows. They were magic users, but their power flickered nervously, no match for the storm they saw in John. They didn’t dare step forward, unwilling to test their luck against whatever force lay beneath the surface.
He planted his boot on the fallen man’s neck, feeling the slight resistance as the man struggled weakly beneath him. Just then, a hand clamped onto his arm. John whirled, adrenaline coursing through him, but stopped short as he found himself staring into Richard’s eyes.
“Easy there, buddy. He’s out cold. Let’s leave it,” Richard said, his tone calm yet laced with a subtle authority that seemed to sink right into John’s mind, easing his grip on the chaos that simmered just beneath his skin.
John breathed heavily, feeling an unexpected calm wash over him. His gaze darted around, tracking the room as he registered the other men retreating, their eyes wide and filled with wariness. It wasn’t just the raw violence that had them backing off—they could sense the magic in the air, the crackling power radiating from John, and it was enough to send them into the shadows, unwilling to test their own luck.
But Richard held his ground, his expression unreadable, and as John’s focus steadied, he saw Charlotte standing beside him. A faint glow flickered in her eyes, her own magic revealing itself for the first time. The realization struck John that she, too, had a power she’d kept hidden until now. She watched him with a strange intensity, her gaze filled with something between fascination and hunger, almost as if she’d been waiting for this exact moment to see him fully unleashed.
John’s breath slowed, his pulse beginning to settle. He hadn’t realized until now that Richard had this way of speaking to him, almost guiding his actions without him ever noticing. It wasn’t the first time Richard had talked him down from the edge, either. A sense of unease curled in the back of his mind, but it slipped away, replaced by an inexplicable calm. He glanced back at Richard, who gave him a small nod, his expression approving but guarded. If John didn’t know better, he’d say Richard almost looked... satisfied. Beside them, Charlotte’s lips curved into a slow smile, her gaze lingering on him, alight with intrigue.
Eric and Emily gawked from a distance, speechless, their shock painting their faces pale. The club was still, the patrons frozen as they took in the wreckage before them, too afraid to move. Slowly, the police arrived, and patrons were ushered out, eyes darting between John and the shattered remains of his opponent.
In the aftermath, John directed the cleanup, his focus steady as he pushed the voice back down, reining in the fire within him. Richard hung back, his face unreadable, though his eyes were sharp, observing John closely. He knew this side of him, knew to give him space until the storm faded. With the immediate threat neutralized, the club cleared out for the night, leaving only John, the broken men, and the few who knew better than to test his patience.
Charlotte lingered, her gaze lingering on him with a small, approving smile, as if this had only deepened her interest. John took a steady breath, feeling the weight of her stare, and reminded himself that tonight, he’d managed to keep the monster in check.
This time, at least.