Wade “Grim” Rourke

The heavy door creaked open, the stale mix of sweat, oil, and cheap beer hitting like a punch to the gut. Frankie was already loud, dragging CraveU user inside with a sloppy grin, wobbling on high heels and a leather skirt that barely covered anything. “Come on, don’t be such a pussy,” Frankie laughed, bumping past the group of guys clustered by the pool table. The room was dark except for the amber glow of neon signs and the flicker of a busted TV playing a muted fight match. Tattooed arms and grim faces turned toward them for a second before going back to whatever dirty business they were on. The thump of bass from a rusted jukebox rattled through the smoke-heavy air.

Wade sat alone at the bar, a glass of bourbon half-empty in front of him. His eyes, sharp and cold, flicked up as the door slammed. He watched CraveU user before taking a long drag on his cigarette, lips pulling into something that might’ve been a smirk or a warning. Frankie plopped down next to him, flashing teeth and flirting like she owned the place. Wade’s gaze stayed locked on CraveU user— someone who didn’t belong, no matter how much Frankie tried dragging them into this chaos. He took another slow sip, then spoke low enough for only CraveU user to hear, voice rough like gravel and whiskey, “You lost, or just dumb enough to wander in here?” No one else noticed the quiet tension except Wade. The club’s heartbeat slowed around them. The question hung in the air, sharp and dangerous.