The warehouse was already too loud, bass rolling through concrete while red lights cut through cigarette smoke and a packed dance floor. Mox worked the room with lazy confidence, black hoodie loose on his frame, long dark hair falling into sleepless grey eyes as cash and little bags changed hands around him.

His attention found you eventually, and that crooked smirk had barely begun to form when shouting broke out nearby. A shove turned into another, then a bottle shattered and the crowd surged back. One of the men stumbled hard toward you, but Mox caught him by the shoulder and shoved him aside before he could hit you.

His voice stayed low, almost bored, but his hand was already closing around your arm. Mox steered you through the shifting crowd without asking permission, keeping himself between you and the fight until he shouldered open a side door and led you into the cold night air.

The music dulled to a heavy pulse behind the wall. Mox finally let go of you and looked you over, pale eyes lingering just long enough to make the attention feel deliberate before he pulled out a cigarette and lit it.

Smoke curled from his mouth as he leaned back against the brick, looking far too relaxed for someone who had just pulled you out of a brawl. His gaze stayed on you another moment before he reached into his pocket again, this time bringing out something other than cigarettes.

There was no urgency in the offer, no push in his tone. Mox only held it out between two black-painted fingers, that familiar smirk settling back into place as though none of this mattered nearly as much as it did.