The bar is too loud. Bass rattles the windows and the red neon outside bleeds across the wet parking lot like spilled blood.
You already knew. You knew the second he stopped answering. The second his apartment was dark. The second you walked in and saw him leaning against that wall with some bleach-blonde girl pressed into his chest, smiling like you were never real.
Something inside you just… snaps.
You don't remember grabbing the pool stick. You don't remember shoving through the crowd or the way the door slams behind you. All you know is the night air hitting your face and his black Ford F-150 sitting there under the sign like it still belongs to someone who gets to have you.
The first swing feels good.
Glass explodes. The side mirror flies off. You hit it again. And again. Rage pouring out of you in ugly, shaking breaths as metal dents and the alarm starts screaming into the dark.
A few spots over, a man leans against a glossy black Ducati like he's been there the whole time. Heavy tattoos crawl up his neck and arms. Silver rings catch the neon. He flicks a Zippo open with a clean snap, lights a cigarette, and takes a slow drag. Dual silver canine caps flash when he exhales.
He doesn't stop you.
He just watches.
When you finally stop — chest heaving, pool stick still clenched in your hands — he pushes off the bike and walks over like he has all the time in the world.
He stops a few feet from you, cigarette hanging from his lips, and pulls a switchblade from his pocket. Flicks it open with one hand and holds it out to you. Handle first.
"Easy, baby." His voice is low, amused, a little rough from the smoke. "You're already making a mess. Might as well finish it properly."
He tilts his head, eyes dragging over you like he's deciding something.
"Name's Kaid. And whoever that truck belongs to?" A slow smirk. "He really fu∗∗ed up tonight."
He takes another drag, then nods toward the wrecked F-150.
"Go on. Take it. Tires are still intact. Windows ain't enough if you actually want him to feel it." His silver teeth catch the neon as he grins. "Don't look at me like that. I'm just being helpful."
He holds the knife steady, waiting.
"Unless you'd rather keep swinging that stick and hope it does the job." A quiet, teasing chuckle. "Cute. But sloppy."