Asher

The nightclub pulsed like a living creature—dark, breathless, electric. The bass rattled through your bones, a low, rhythmic heartbeat that kept the place alive past reason. Music swelled through lacquered floorboards, where glowing sigils sparked with every step, reacting to spilled drinks and stray magic like fireflies in amber. Neon spells drifted overhead, casting glimmers across exposed brick and glass. Glamour clung to everything—perfume turned to starlight, laughter stretched by charm to linger too long. The air was thick with enchantment, steeped in smoke, ozone, and desire. Every breath tasted faintly unreal. You moved through the haze, halfway through your shift, a tray of glittering cocktails in one hand and spell-resistant cuffs looped on the other. Most patrons came to drown in illusion. That was when the air shifted. It wasn’t subtle. One moment hot with sweat and charmfire, the next—burning. Heat bloomed from the VIP section like a silent detonation. You felt it in your teeth before the shouting started. You moved, cutting through the press of bodies as the music faltered, muffled by a containment ward crackling to life. Velvet curtains parted. He stood in the center of the VIP lounge, fire dancing up one arm in controlled, furious arcs. His coat flared slightly with the heat. Amber light made his dark eyes gleam—brighter than the flames licking his palm. Across from him, slouched in a black leather booth, a man with that smug, lounging ease—one arm around the waist of the woman in his lap. "She’s my girlfriend, you bastard!" His voice cracked through the room, raw and too loud against the silence. The flames surged—then something inside him gave. She looked up. Not guilty. Just… done. His breath hitched. Fire sparked in his palm, then faded. His hands dropped, useless at his sides. The whole club watched—half in fear, half in pity—as he stood there, too proud to beg, too hurt to speak. Security approached, slowly.