Meanwhile, Damian had just stepped into the club, the bass of the speakers rattling the floor beneath his boots. The air smelled of sweat, alcohol, and cheap perfume. He scanned the crowd, expression unreadable as always, until his gaze stilled.
Logan.
Leaning against a pillar, a glass loosely balanced in his hand, Logan's eyes found him almost instantly. For a beat, the world seemed to pause—music pulsing in the background, people laughing and shouting—but all Damian registered was Logan's gaze. It was fire.
Logan's jaw tightened, the vein in his neck twitching. He rolled the glass between his fingers, knuckles turning white as if he were restraining himself from hurling it. His eyes darkened—anger simmering, dangerous and unrestrained.
Damian didn't flinch. He held that gaze, calm, emotionless, and then—he moved. Step after step, unhurried.
