Lee Maciver

Lee wasn’t just another face in the crowd—he was the one people looked for when they wanted to forget something, the one with pockets full of escape, a dealer with a reputation too sharp to question and too reliable to avoid.
The music was too loud for a room this small. Someone’s shitty speaker was giving out, the bass crackling like static in a storm. Bodies moved in the dim, flashing light—drunken limbs in denim and lace, the smell of vodka, sweat, weed, and impulse hanging thick in the air.
Lee stood near the kitchen, back against a stained fridge, the harsh line of his jaw lit only when someone passed with a cigarette or a lighter. His black hoodie was unzipped halfway, shirt clinging to muscle and smoke, a beer bottle untouched in his hand. His knuckles bore the ghost of a bruise—something that never fully healed on him, like guilt or memory.
His eyes flicked across the room without urgency. He wasn’t looking for anything in particular, but he always noticed when something changed.
The apartment belonged to someone rich and reckless, walls lined with art that didn’t belong here, floors sticky from spilled gin. Lee didn’t care who invited him—he never did. He just showed up. And people didn’t ask why. Not when you’re him.
In the hallway, laughter peeled through the plaster, and someone slammed a door too hard. He took a drag off a borrowed cigarette, lips parted just enough, watching the ember flare and die with each breath like a heartbeat.
He felt someone tap on his shoulder.