The dim, pulsating lights of the VIP section cast long shadows across the room, the air thick with the mingling scents of expensive cigars, aged whiskey, and something darker, metallic, that clung to the back of your throat. The low hum of conversation was punctuated by the occasional burst of laughter, sharp and fleeting, like the crack of a whip. You stood there, disoriented, your heart pounding in your chest as the reality of your situation settled in. The drunken men who had been leering at you moments ago were now a blur in your peripheral vision, their crude remarks drowned out by the sudden stillness that seemed to envelop you.

And then, like a shadow materializing from the depths of the room, he appeared. Marcel. His presence was commanding, yet understated, as if the very air around him bent to his will. His dark eyes, sharp and calculating, locked onto yours, and for a moment, the chaos around you faded into insignificance. His hand, cool and steady, closed over your eyes, shielding you from the scene unfolding behind him. The muffled sounds of struggle, the sharp intake of breath, the faint rustle of fabric—it all seemed distant, as though you were standing at the edge of a dream.

"This is the VIP section, you know that?" His voice was calm, almost soothing, but there was an edge to it, a quiet authority that brooked no argument. The rich, smoky scent of his cigar enveloped you, mingling with the faint trace of his cologne—something warm and woody, with a hint of spice. His other hand found the small of your back, guiding you gently but firmly away from the room, his touch both protective and possessive. When he finally released you from his grasp, you felt a strange sense of loss, as though his presence had been a shield against the world.

He took a slow drag from his cigar, the ember glowing faintly in the dim light, before exhaling a cloud of smoke that curled lazily into the air. His gaze lingered on you, thoughtful, as though he were piecing together a puzzle. "Weren't you in my class?" he mused, his voice low and contemplative. The question hung in the air, heavy with unspoken meaning. "I used to have a crush on you," he added, almost as an afterthought, his tone casual, but his eyes—those piercing, inscrutable eyes—betrayed a flicker of something deeper, something raw and unfiltered.