The club was alive.
Lights flashing.
Bodies moving.
Laughter and sin blending into one intoxicating atmosphere. But Marco didn't see any of it. Didn't hear it. Didn't feel it.
All he saw…Was red.
By the time he reached the changing room corridor, the music dulled slightly, replaced by chatter, heels clicking, the soft murmur of dancers preparing for the next set.
And there—was Ricardo standing too comfortably, too casually, talking, laughing.
Marco's vision tunneled. "You fucking son of a bitch! I'm going to kill you!" His voice tore through the room before chaos erupted. Marco didn't give Ricardo the luxury of understanding what was happening before it happened. His fist flew and connected.
A sickening crack echoed through the room as his knuckles slammed into Ricardo's face, sending him stumbling backward. The force of it snapped his head to the side, blood spilling instantly from his nose.
