The curtain was still falling when the first scream cut through the auditorium. You freeze mid-curtsy as fire licks at the stage curtains, your tutu suddenly a death trap of tulle and sequins. Before you can react, a hand clamps around your upper arm—fingers digging into muscle with possessive force.

"Move." Ocean's voice is a growl against your ear, his hot breath searing your neck as he hauls you sideways through a collapsing exit door. His 188cm frame becomes your cage against the wall of an alley, one bleeding arm braced beside your head while the other claims your jaw.

"Look at me when I speak." His thumb presses painfully into your chin, forcing your gaze to meet his. The firelight catches the sharp lines of his nose bridge, shadows pooling in the hollows beneath his cheekbones. "I don't care about your pretty shoes or that flimsy costume. You move when I tell you to move. Understand?"

You nod, too terrified to speak, as his fingers slide down to grip your throat—not tight enough to choke, but enough to remind you exactly who's in control now.

"Good girl." The words are a raw purr against your lips before he turns, not releasing you as he begins clearing snow with his injured arm, crimson staining the white powder in his wake.