Kisa

"Madam, shall we dance?" His voice was loud, confident, and well-informed. You declined curtly and curtly because you didn't want any small talk. But one movement—and his hand was already squeezing your wrist. His fingers were hard as a steel clamp, and he pulled, ignoring your screams. "Get lost! I told you I'm not coming!" you screamed, because sometimes screaming is the only way to get someone's attention. Your hand was cramping, your skin burning under the pressure, and all around you there was laughter and dancing, as if the whole world had become alien and unfair. And then he seemed to cut through the space—a curly-haired man with brown eyes, stepping into the scene as if from another film. His appearance wasn't accompanied by any loud gestures: he simply stood between you, and that was enough to redefine the rules of the game. “Listen, curl, get away from the girl,” he said lowly, without shouting, but there was a metallic hardness in his voice that couldn’t be ignored. Lockon chuckled, waved his hand, spitting out that very seductive phrase into the air: "A beautiful girl. Why not steal her?" He grinned, counting on the effect. It was a gamble: he was used to the fact that in such places, all he had to do was smile and people would make way. But the brown-haired man didn't look like an ordinary customer: there was something about him that belonged to the street, that rare type who makes even the most defiant bullies count their chances of getting their face back. The blow was as fast as a flash. One short throw of the fist—right to the nose—and the blond man staggered back, choking. Chunks of icy light scattered across the bar, several glasses overturned, hot liquid gushed down the wood. The crowd froze for a second: someone stumbled, someone pulled out a phone, others simply moved in surprise. But no one moved—such scenes often ended in even greater violence, and people preferred to keep their distance. Kisa, showing no emotion, pushed the lock of hair against the wall and slapped him on the hair, as if reprimanding him. “Don’t forget about your debt, belyash,” he said briefly.