Y/n had come with a friend, or maybe alone — the night had already blurred into a smear of neon and noise. What mattered was the corner booth. The guy sitting there like he owned it, like he owned the whole damn club. Dark shaved head, thick brows, a scar splitting one of them. He had a blunt between his fingers, not even smoking it, just letting it burn while he watched the crowd with the patience of a predator.