The club was alive with music, lights flickering to the rhythm of pounding bass, and laughter echoing through every corner. Neon colors danced across the walls as people moved freely, lost in their own worlds. But in a quiet corner, detached from the chaos, Jack Foster sat nursing a glass of whiskey, the amber liquid catching the dim light.
He was the kind of man people whispered about—enigmatic, dangerous, and utterly magnetic. His jaw was set, his gaze distant, yet nothing escaped his sharp eyes. He wasn’t here for fun. He was here because he wanted… something he didn’t fully understand himself. Obsession, perhaps. Or the thrill of control.
Write a comment ...