Neon City sprawled below Max Elridge like a living beast, its veins of headlights pulsing through the night. From the penthouse window of Elridge Tower, the streets seemed almost serene—bars spilling faint music, tiny figures scurrying under amber streetlamps, the distant hum of late-night traffic. But Max knew better. Neon City never slept. It consumed, chewed up the weak, and forged the strong into something colder, sharper.
He stood with hands in his pockets, reflection sharp in the glass, jaw set against the city's restless glow. A single whiskey tumbler sat on the marble counter behind him, amber liquid untouched, catching the neon streaks from outside. He rarely drank—not for lack of desire, but clarity was his lifeline. In a city where power shifted like sand, losing focus was a death sentence.
The penthouse was too quiet, the hum of the air system the only sound, a sterile whisper that mocked true silence. It wasn't peace—it was the calm before a storm, a reminder that even at this height, a fall was always possible.
His thoughts drifted to The Young House Club, his domain of controlled chaos. Last night, something had shifted. Not the crowd, not the music, but a moment—a girl in a blue dress, her hazel eyes defiant yet fragile, her presence a crack in his carefully curated order. He had moved without thinking, stepping down from the VIP lounge to restore control before the chaos escalated. Instinct, not sentiment. Or so he told himself. Yet the memory lingered, unbidden, like a note he couldn't unhear.
His fingers twitched, brushing the edge of his leather jacket. He crossed the polished hardwood to the piano in the corner, black and gleaming under dim lights. A relic from a life he'd buried, more art than instrument. He lowered himself onto the bench, hands hovering over the ivory. He didn't play. Music demanded softness, vulnerability he'd locked away years ago. Still, a melody stirred in memory—soft, haunting, from a time before Neon City claimed him. He stilled his hands and rose, pushing the thought away.
The door opened. Tiger stepped inside, black attire blending with the shadows, calm as the city's heartbeat. He leaned against the wall, gaze steady.
"You were quiet after the club," Tiger said, low, probing without pushing.
Max's jaw tightened, fingers curling into his palms. "Nothing to say." Clipped. Warning enough.
Tiger's brow lifted. "You stepped in yourself. Security could've handled it."
Max turned to the window, neon blurring into streaks of pink and blue. "It was getting messy. I don't like loose ends."
Tiger nodded, eyes lingering on Max's posture. "Entry list tightened. No press. No troublemakers. It's handled."
"Good." Flat. Eyes fixed on the city.
Tiger hesitated, boots scuffing softly. "You've been off since."
Max flicked a sharp glance. "You said that already."
Tiger held the gaze a heartbeat longer before stepping back. "Get some rest." Door clicked shut.
The silence returned, heavier now, pressing against Max's chest. Reflection stared back: blue eyes unreadable, jaw set like armor. He didn't linger on the club, on her, on the spark that cracked his control. Distance was survival in Neon City.
Hours later, the gym was empty, glass walls exposing the glittering city below. Weights clanged softly in cavernous space. Sweat slicked his skin with each lift—bench press, deadlift, pull-up. Rhythm, repetition, discipline. His breath steady, muscles burning. Here, no deals, no expectations—just precision, anchor against chaos.
Under the cold shower, water stung, erasing noise from his head. He stayed until thoughts were blank, until the memory of her eyes—hazel, defiant, fragile—washed away. By the time he stepped out, towel slung around his neck, it was 2 a.m. Neon City still hummed outside, lights burning like restless stars, cars streaking like comets.
Back in the penthouse, he poured another whiskey, amber liquid catching the skyline's glow. He didn't drink, just held it, its weight grounding him. Not for numbness. Not for escape. Chasing nothing. Nothing was safer, cleaner.
Dawn crept in, soft gold softening city edges. Max stood at the window, jacket discarded, black shirt slightly unbuttoned. Quiet moments were rare, and he let them linger. Phone buzzed—Alex, another club crisis. Ignored. Eyes traced a train winding through the streets, lights flickering like lifelines. Lives moving out there—baristas brewing coffee, parents packing lunches, dreamers chasing futures—untouched by his world of power and shadows.
Shoulders relaxed fractionally. Fingers brushed glass, cool against skin. He closed his eyes. Walls existed for a reason. Crossing them—or letting anyone cross—was forbidden.
Yet last night, something slipped through—a girl in a blue dress, her gaze cutting through armor like silk through steel. Jaw tightened. Phone buzzed again. He picked up the glass, took a single sip—sharp, controlled, burning. The day would start soon. Meetings, deals, cycles of control. Whatever echo lingered would fade. It had to.
Max Elridge didn't hold onto moments. Moments were cracks, weaknesses, gaps in the structure he'd built. But as he turned from the window, her face—eyes, dress, quiet defiance—flickered unbidden, a spark in the dark threatening to ignite something he couldn't control.
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To be continued…