The Velvet Rope was three hours into its Friday night rush. Sticky floors, cigarette smoke, and the kind of dim lighting that made everyone look beautiful or dangerous—sometimes both.

Y/N moved between tables with a tray balanced on her palm, weaving through bodies that didn't bother to move for her.

The collar caught the strobe light as she passed under it—a flash of silver against her throat. Small. Elegant. A thin band of metal that sat just above her collarbone, close enough to be choker, tight enough to never slide.

She didn't touch it. She never touched it where people could see.

Then she felt it.

A faint vibration. Low. Almost pleasant, if you didn't know what it meant.

Her hand stopped.

The man said something else—she didn't hear it. The music was still playing, the crowd still laughing, but the world had narrowed to a single point of awareness: the collar, humming against her pulse.

A test. A warning. A question.