The bass thudded through Gilbert's skull, every beat reminding him how far gone he was. He shouldn't have had that last drink, but hell, forgetting felt better than remembering. His steps were heavy, his chest warm with liquor, his mind fogged—until he saw her.
Raven.
Balancing a tray with practiced grace, eyes narrowed, shoulders tense. To anyone else, she looked in control. Untouchable. But Gilbert noticed the cracks—the way her smile was clipped, the way her jaw tightened every time a man leaned too close.
And then one of them did worse.
A hand slid boldly over her hip, lingering. Too casual. Too entitled.
Gilbert's stomach dropped. His fists curled in his pockets.
It wasn't his concern. He told himself that. Over and over.
But it bugged him—their roaming hands, their laughter at her expense. It gnawed at him like acid.
Because he'd seen this before. Michelle—Mitchell—with her easy laugh and the way she used to shrug off the unwanted touches, the whispers, the sly jokes. Back then, Gilbert had done nothing. He'd stood by and let her handle it, and that guilt never really left him.
Now, watching Raven grit her teeth as she pulled away, shame twisted with anger.
Not again.
He stepped closer.
Raven's eyes cut to him, sharp as glass. "Don't," she snapped under her breath. "I don't need your help."
Maybe she didn't. Maybe she'd hate him for this. But Gilbert's chest was a furnace, and he couldn't—he *wouldn't*—stand still this time.
"She said back off," he ground out, his voice rough, uneven from drink.
The man turned, sneering, the stench of alcohol rolling off him. He shoved Gilbert lightly in the chest. "And if I don't?"
Gilbert's pulse roared in his ears. His nails bit into his palms. His vision tunneled.
This wasn't about logic anymore. Or Raven.
It was Michelle's laughter echoing in his head. It was every time he'd swallowed his anger and looked away.
Not tonight.
His fist flew.
The crack of knuckles on jaw was louder than the music, louder than Raven's sharp gasp. The man staggered back, clutching his face, curses spilling from his mouth. Chaos erupted—chairs scraping, drinks crashing to the floor, shouts rising.
Another man lunged at him, and Gilbert swung again, sloppy but fierce, the liquor fueling his rage. His knuckles split, pain burning, but he didn't care. For once, he wasn't calm, collected Gilbert. He was fury. He was heartbreak. He was every mistake he'd never made right.
Through the blur of fists and neon lights, Raven's voice cut through, raw and desperate.
"Stop it, Gilbert! Stop it."
But he couldn't. Or maybe he didn't want to. The more they pulled at him, the more he shoved back, as if breaking something outside himself could quiet the storm inside.
Security swarmed, ripping him away. He stumbled, chest heaving, blood pounding in his ears. Around him, men shouted, pointing at Raven.
"This is on your girl!" one of them barked. "She brought him over!"
Her face drained of color. Her tray trembled in her hand. And in that split second, Gilbert realized the truth: he hadn't protected her. He'd doomed her.
The manager's voice was thunder. "Raven. My office. Now."
Gilbert tried to follow, words spilling out, clumsy, desperate. "It was me—don't blame her—it was me—"
But the decision was already carved in stone on the manager's face.
And Raven's eyes, when they flicked back to him before she disappeared down the hall, weren't grateful. They burned with the kind of fury that left scars.
"This is all your fault!" Raven's fist slammed into his chest, not caring that her knuckles ached from the hit. Her voice shook the night. "You had no right to interfere! Who the fuck do you think you are? Just because you're rich doesn't mean you're lord over all!"
Gilbert's mouth opened, but she cut him off, her fury spilling over like fire catching air.
"I told you not to interfere, but you couldn't help yourself, could you? You just *had* to play the hero. And now—thanks to you—I've lost the only job that keeps my family running. Who the fuck do you think you are?"
"I'm sorry," Gilbert whispered, guilt heavy in his voice. "I didn't mean to—"
"Of course you didn't mean to!" she spat, laughter breaking sharp and bitter in her throat. "You're the almighty Gilbert, never in the wrong. But guess what? You fucked up this time. Big time. And now no one's gonna hire me. All because of you!" She shoved the words at him like daggers, her chest rising and falling with rage.
Gilbert ran a hand through his hair, eyes shadowed. "That's not a problem," he sighed, almost desperate. "This job wasn't even suitable for you. You can come work at my place."
Raven's scoff was sharp enough to cut glass. She sucked her teeth and glared, her eyes drilling holes through him. "And give you the satisfaction of seeing me suffer? I'd rather be jobless."
"Raven—" he called softly, her name heavy with something she didn't want to recognize.
She spun on him, venom laced with pain. "Don't you fucking call me. I hate you."
She stormed away, but every step made her chest heavier. How was she going to take care of her sick mom now? Her little brother? Her useless stepfather had drained the last of her savings, and this month's paycheck was supposed to keep the lights on.
Now it was gone.
"Fuck," she whispered into the night, her pride the only thing holding back the tears burning in her throat.
Raven's footsteps echoed hard against the pavement, each one heavier than the last. The night air bit at her skin, but it was nothing compared to the hollow ache gnawing inside her.
She clenched her fists until her nails dug into her palms. How the hell was she going to pay for her mom's medicine now? Her little brother's school fees? The bills already stacked on the kitchen counter?
Her stepfather's drunken face flashed in her mind, the way he'd drained the last of her savings without a shred of guilt. She had been counting on this month's paycheck—just this one—to breathe a little easier.
And now it was gone.
Because of him.
Her pride burned as much as her fear. She would never give Gilbert the satisfaction of seeing her beg, never stoop low enough to take his pity job. But what did pride matter when her family was sinking?
Her throat tightened. For the first time that night, her fury cracked, and all that was left was the weight pressing down on her chest.
"Fuck," she whispered, the word breaking on her lips. She kept walking, blinking hard, because if she stopped—if she let herself crumble—there would be no getting back up.