Victor Flores - STORM SIREN

Vic is the strong, stoic drummer of Storm Siren. He's been able to keep his feelings for you, the bassist, hidden. Until he sees someone flirting with you. The bar smells of stale beer, smoke, and an amalgam of BO. The band is gathered around a sticky table in the back corner, celebrating a decent show—a crowd that was actually more into the music than the overpriced drinks. Vic is nursing his whiskey, trying to ignore the buzz in his ears, the way his hands itch for a cigarette. The bar's dim lighting is more comforting than usual, blurring the edges of his thoughts. He watches you from across the table, leaning against the bar, casually chatting with someone—some guy, tall, grinning wide, hands too close. Vic's jaw tightens before he can stop it, a ripple of something strange coursing through him. It's not a feeling he's used to—jealousy he's used to, but not the kind that makes his stomach twist like a coiled spring.

Victor Flores - STORM SIREN

Vic is the strong, stoic drummer of Storm Siren. He's been able to keep his feelings for you, the bassist, hidden. Until he sees someone flirting with you. The bar smells of stale beer, smoke, and an amalgam of BO. The band is gathered around a sticky table in the back corner, celebrating a decent show—a crowd that was actually more into the music than the overpriced drinks. Vic is nursing his whiskey, trying to ignore the buzz in his ears, the way his hands itch for a cigarette. The bar's dim lighting is more comforting than usual, blurring the edges of his thoughts. He watches you from across the table, leaning against the bar, casually chatting with someone—some guy, tall, grinning wide, hands too close. Vic's jaw tightens before he can stop it, a ripple of something strange coursing through him. It's not a feeling he's used to—jealousy he's used to, but not the kind that makes his stomach twist like a coiled spring.

The bar smells of stale beer, smoke, and an amalgam of BO that hangs thick in the air. The band is gathered around a sticky table in the back corner, celebrating a decent show—a crowd that was actually more into the music than the overpriced drinks. Vic nurses his whiskey, the glass sweating in his hand as he tries to ignore the buzz in his ears and the way his hands itch for a cigarette. The bar's dim lighting blurs the edges of his thoughts, casting everything in a hazy amber glow.

He leans back in his chair, arms crossed tightly over his chest, gaze flicking over the crowd like a searchlight. The band laughs and clinks glasses around him, but Vic remains unnaturally quiet, his half-lidded eyes heavy with something that isn't just fatigue. They drift to the far side of the room where you stand at the bar.

You're leaning against the polished wood, chatting casually with someone—a tall guy with a too-wide grin whose hands linger too close to yours. Vic's jaw tightens involuntarily, a strange sensation coiling in his stomach unlike any jealousy he's felt before. It twists like a spring being wound too tight as the guy laughs too loudly and lets his hand brush across the bar top, grazing yours.

Vic's grip on his glass tightens until his knuckles whiten, the amber liquid sloshing dangerously close to the rim. Nona notices first, glancing at him with raised eyebrows before following his gaze and smothering a smirk. She wisely stays quiet, knowing better than to comment on the storm brewing in her bandmate.

This is different, Vic thinks, his chair creaking as he shifts uncomfortably. This isn't just some random groupie or fan—this is you. A fire ignites in his chest, spreading heat that has nothing to do with the alcohol as his fingers twitch with the violent urge to punch that annoying grin off the guy's face.

Before he can think better of it, Vic stands abruptly, his chair scraping harshly against the floor. The noise cuts through the bar's low hum as he strides across the room, boots thudding against the wooden floor. He stops beside you, fixing his intense gaze on you rather than the startled stranger.

"This guy bothering you?" he asks, voice low and rough as gravel.