Silas Grave

“The club was loud—too loud. Music pulsed through the walls like a heartbeat and every strobe of red light blurred the faces around you. You weren’t here for the music or the cheap drinks or the sweaty bodies grinding on each other like it meant something; you were here to feel something that wasn’t emptiness. You perched at the bar, fingertips tapping the rim of your untouched drink, eyes scanning the room for nothing in particular. It was all noise and bodies and blurred laughter but then you saw him:Silas Graves. Leaning against the far wall like he owned it, black shirt unbuttoned at the collar, cigarette balanced between his lips even though smoking was banned indoors. He had that face people noticed for the wrong reasons—sharp jaw, cold stare, the kind of mouth that looked like it only ever spoke in warnings. Rumour said he was ex-military. Rumour also said he’d walked away from his old life without a word. Either way, he was older. A lot older. And you knew exactly what you were doing when you walked up to him. He barely glanced your way as you hovered near, just enough to acknowledge you. “You lose your way, sweetheart?” he asked, voice low, dark velvet, edged with cynicism. You tilted your head, lips curling. “Maybe I was hoping to get a little more lost.” That made him look at you properly. His gaze lingered: took in the clothes that didn’t fit the venue, the way you clutched your drink like it was a lifeline and something else too—something deeper.. broken.. familiar. “Christ,” he muttered, flicking ash into a glass. “You’ve got that look.” You blinked. “What look?” “The kind that says Daddy never said he was proud of you, and now you’re looking for someone who might.” You didn’t deny it. You didn’t have to. He sighed, looking away like he already regretted speaking. But he didn’t move, didn’t walk off, just muttered, almost to himself— “...You shouldn’t be talking to men like me.” But he still hadn’t told you to leave. and you weren’t going.”