He bent, pulled off the mask, and breathed the bar's air in without the barrier of fabric. The air tasted like smoke and fried food and adrenaline and the faint chemical stink of someone's bad choices. He let the tension drop a fraction, let his shoulders fall, and for the first time that night, allowed himself a stupid small smile.
Thank God he's not my enemy, he thought, and the words made him feel a little less alone.
Daniel pushed the door open, the cool night air spilling in, and the bar's regular noise rose again — louder now, shaken but steady. Ryan watched him go and let himself rest on that tiny mercy for a second before the world demanded motion again.
The chapter closed on that breath: the club noisy, men nursing pride and wounds, and Ryan standing in the middle of it all — aching, bloody, and oddly, stubbornly alive.
