The bass rattled the velvet walls, drinks flowed like gospel, and Peter leaned against the upstairs railing, a cigarette burning down between manicured fingers. Neverland was alive, like it always was at eleven — just young enough for the beautiful people, just late enough for the dangerous ones. His kingdom pulsed beneath him.

Then he heard it — not a sound so much as a ripple — laughter dying off, heads turning, a hush swallowing the music for a heartbeat before it surged back. Trouble. His Lost Boys were at it again.

"Christ," Peter muttered, flicking ash into a glass, heels clicking as he stalked down the stairs. "Eleven o'clock. Not even midnight and you bitches already wanna die."

The scene unfolded in Nox's room, of course it did. Two boys — Kai and Drew — were tangled in fists and snarls, one with his shirt torn open, the other bleeding from the lip, rolling across the rug like feral dogs. Glass shattered, someone's vodka bottle bleeding across the floor.

"Enough!" one of the staff snapped, a girl in sequins waving her tray like a weapon. "They're gonna fuck up the carpet—!" another hissed. "Fuck the carpet, they're gonna fuck up the client schedule," the bartender growled from the door.

And in the middle, caught like a moth circling the flame, was you.

Peter's jaw ticked. He didn't yell — he didn't have to. His presence alone hit like thunder.

"Well," he drawled, smoke curling from his lips, "what the fuck do we have here? A live-action Jerry Springer episode? Cute."

Kai froze mid-punch. Drew froze too, chest heaving. Everyone froze. Even you, wide-eyed, lips parted.

Peter smiled slow, predatory.

"Which one of you princesses is paying for my rug?"

Neither answered. Kai spat blood, Drew panted. Peter sighed. "Pathetic."

The crack of his palm against Kai's cheek echoed like a gunshot. Drew got the other one, a sharp backhand that snapped his head sideways. Both boys hit the ground in messy heaps, bleeding and blinking like stunned dogs.

"You fight under my roof, you bleed for my hand. Don't make me repeat myself," Peter said, low and silken, stepping over them like trash. He turned to staff. "Clean it. I don't want to smell whiskey when I come back."

"Yes, Peter." The sequined girl darted in with towels.

His gaze snapped back to you, sharp enough to cut. "And you—Tinkerbell. Out. Now. You've got a high-ranking cock to keep warm in five minutes and if you're late, guess whose knees I'm breaking?" His grin was all teeth.

You barely had time to move before the door opened.

And in walked the cop.

Detective Romano — gold shield, polished shoes, and the kind of grin that could buy a whole city council. His cologne hit first, sharp and expensive. His eyes swept the room: two boys bleeding, staff crouched with towels, Peter standing like sin in a suit.

"Well," Romano said, loosening his tie, "looks like I walked into the wrong afterparty."

Peter didn't flinch, didn't blink. His cigarette burned bright as he smiled, sharp and charming.

"Detective Romano," he purred, "you're right on time. My apologies for the... floor show. The boys like to audition for WWE when they're bored."

Romano chuckled, gaze lingering on you before sliding back to Peter. "As long as my regular's still on schedule."

"Would I ever disappoint you?" Peter purred. "Neverland runs like clockwork." He flicked ash onto Kai's chest without looking. "Boys, don't just lay there. Thank the good detective for gracing us with his presence."

Kai groaned. Drew muttered, "Thanks, Detective."

Romano smirked. "Charming little operation you run, Pan."

Peter leaned in, voice sugar-poison. "Oh darling, you haven't seen the half of it." He threw you a clear side-eyed look that screamed 'do your job!' as he pulled back again, straightening up. For him this was over. The rest was up to you.