-`quinn´-

One second, Mikey’s just standing there, hands in his pockets, eyes half-lidded like he’s bored. The next, the guy’s slammed chest-first into the bar with a dull thud. Mikey’s got a hand fisted in the back of his shirt, pinning him in place.

“You didn’t hear her the first time,” Mikey says, still in that soft, almost lazy tone, “She said she’s not interested.”

The guy struggles, muttering something about calling security, mistake number two. Mikey releases him, only to shove him back a step so hard his stool tips over. The clatter draws attention from half the bar.

“You wanna know if I can fight?” Mikey tilts his head again, and this time there’s the faintest curl to his mouth, something cold, “I can show you.”

The guy makes the fatal decision to swing first. You barely have time to suck in a breath before Mikey’s ducked the punch, hooked an arm under his, and flipped him onto the floor like it’s second nature. The guy hits the ground hard, groaning.

Mikey crouches, gripping the front of his shirt and pulling him up just enough so their faces are inches apart.

“Next time,” Mikey murmurs, “you keep your mouth shut when a woman tells you no.”

He lets him drop, standing and brushing his hands off like the whole thing was nothing. His friends haven’t even needed to move, though you catch Draken watching with that faintly exasperated ‘here we go again expression.

Mikey turns back to you, and it’s like a switch flips, his expression softens, and he offers his hand, “Let’s go,” he says simply.

Keisuke Baji

“I’m not interested. Sorry.”

You give the guy at the bar a tight-lipped smile, hoping to get rid of him. He’s been talking for ten minutes straight and his cologne is starting to make your eyes water from how close he’s hovering.

He just laughs, leaning in closer, "C’mon, don’t be like that. Where is this imaginary boyfriend, anyway?"

"He’s not imaginary. He’s right over there." You subtly nod towards the back of the bar where your boyfriend is sitting with his friends

The guy glances over, a smirk on his face, "Okay, so you got a boyfriend. But can he fight?"

Just as he finishes the sentence, a hand lands on his shoulder. You didn't even need to look to know who it was. The guy tenses and turns around, his cocky smile faltering as he sees your boyfriend standing there, with his friends not far behind.

Baji's grin is pure chaos, “You wanna find out?"

His eyes are glinting with a dangerous excitement. He's already cracking his knuckles, practically vibrating with the promise of a fight.

The guy just laughs again, shaking his head like this is all some kind of joke.

“Relax, man. I’m just talking to her,” he says, turning his back on Baji entirely to face you again, “So, what do you say? Ditch Mr. Attitude over there and-“

He doesn’t get to finish.

There’s a sudden crash of a bar stool hitting the floor, and before you can blink, Baji’s got him by the collar. His grin is feral, teeth bared like he’s been waiting for someone to give him an excuse.

“You were sayin’?” Baji growls, shoving him back hard enough that the guy stumbles into the bar counter. The sound of glass clinking carries over the music, and a few people step aside, sensing the brewing storm.

“What the hell-“ The guy tries to shove him back, but it’s a mistake.

Baji moves fast, one hard jab to the guy’s ribs, another right hook that lands with a sickening crack. The guy grunts, doubling over, but Baji’s already grabbing him again, dragging him down into a knee to the gut.

“Keisuke!” you hiss, grabbing his arm, but he’s locked in.

“You think you can talk to my girl like that and walk away?!” Baji’s voice is loud, furious, but there’s that wild edge that says he’s enjoying this.

The guy swings clumsily, catching Baji’s jaw, but that just earns him another punch, this one straight to the nose. Blood sprays, and the guy crumples to the floor, groaning.

Baji finally lets go, breathing hard, knuckles split and red. He spits on the ground next to the guy and wipes his mouth with the back of his hand, grinning at you like he just won a prizefight.

“See? Told you I could fight,” he says, voice still buzzing with adrenaline.

You pinch the bridge of your nose, “You’re insane.”

“Yeah,” he smirks, slinging an arm around your shoulders like nothing happened, “But I’m your insane.”

Takashi Mitsuya

“I’m not interested. Sorry.”

You give the guy at the bar a tight-lipped smile, hoping to get rid of him. He’s been talking for ten minutes straight and his cologne is starting to make your eyes water from how close he’s hovering.

He just laughs, leaning in closer, "C’mon, don’t be like that. Where is this imaginary boyfriend, anyway?"

"He’s not imaginary. He’s right over there." You subtly nod towards the back of the bar where your boyfriend is sitting with his friends.

The guy glances over, a smirk on his face, "Okay, so you got a boyfriend. But can he fight?"

Just as he finishes the sentence, a hand lands on his shoulder. You didn't even need to look to know who it was. The guy tenses and turns around, his cocky smile faltering as he sees your boyfriend standing there, with his friends not far behind.

Mitsuya steps forward calmly, his hands in his pockets.

“I think you’ve had enough to drink," he says, his tone polite but firm. He doesn't need to show off or act tough; his quiet confidence is more intimidating than any physical threat.

The guy glances between Mitsuya and you, then smirks like he’s decided he’s not impressed.

“Yeah, well, I wasn’t talking to you, pretty boy,” he says, dismissively turning back toward you, “C’mon, sweetheart. Just one drink. Your boyfriend won’t even have to know.”

You blink at him, disbelief curdling into something hotter, “He’s literally standing right here.”

Mitsuya tilts his head slightly, still calm, still unreadable, “You should walk away. Now.”

The guy laughs, a short, ugly sound, “Or what? You gonna knit me a sweater?”

You feel the shift before you see it. Mitsuya straightens, hands sliding out of his pockets, and there’s a subtle tightening in his jaw. His friends have gone quiet behind him, watching with the stillness of people who know exactly what’s about to happen.

“Last chance,” Mitsuya says softly, and there’s no humor left in his tone.

The guy snorts, “You don’t scare me-“

He doesn’t finish the sentence. Mitsuya moves in one smooth, precise motion. No wasted energy, no showboating. He catches the guy by the front of his shirt, pivots, and drives him back into the bar with a solid thud. Glasses rattle, and the guy’s drink tips over, spilling down the counter.

The guy tries to shove him off, but Mitsuya’s grip is iron, “She said she’s not interested,” Mitsuya says, voice low and even, his eyes locked on the man’s. “That’s where the conversation ends.”

The guy opens his mouth, maybe to argue, maybe to spit another insult, but Mitsuya doesn’t give him the chance. One swift punch, clean and sharp, snaps his head to the side. He stumbles against the bar, clutching his jaw, and Mitsuya lets go.

Someone’s laugh cuts through the hum of the bar from somewhere nearby, but Mitsuya doesn’t acknowledge it. He just steps back, flexing his fingers once, and says, “Get out.”

The guy mutters something under his breath but staggers toward the door, shoulders hunched. Mitsuya watches until he’s gone, then turns to you, his expression softening instantly.

“You okay?”

Your pulse is still racing, but you nod. “Yeah. I just… didn’t think you’d actually-“

He gives a faint smile, brushing a stray hair from your face, “You didn’t think I’d fight for you?”

“I knew you would,” you admit, “I just thought you’d stay polite about it.”

Mitsuya chuckles quietly, leaning closer, “Polite has limits.”

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