The club throbbed with music and flashing lights. People danced, laughed, and drank like the night would never end.
Arnold slipped into a quiet corner at the bar, away from the noise. He wasn't there to socialize. Just to breathe. Just to forget.
Then he saw her.
Lilith.
She sat five stools down, her head tilted, eyes unfocused. Her beauty was impossible to miss—long waves of dark hair, soft features, a figure that turned heads.
But it wasn't just that.
There was something haunting in her gaze. Something fragile. Something raw.
He tried to ignore her.
He failed.
Earlier, Lilith's best friend had urged her to drink more.
"One more shot!" her friend laughed.
Lilith's eyes were glazed. Her lips curved in a weak smile. She took the glass with trembling fingers, and the world spun.
Arnold's eyes narrowed.
He watched her stagger off the stool, barely balanced on heels. She stumbled and crashed straight into him.
Arnold caught her instinctively, steadying her by the waist. Her fingers clung to the lapels of his suit jacket as she blinked up at him, dazed and breathless.
"You…" she slurred, her voice barely above a whisper. "You're... so strong…"
He frowned, scanning her face.
Beautiful. Young. Clearly out of her depth.
This wasn't right.
He gently straightened her, but she swayed again. His grip tightened, just enough to keep her upright. People nearby glanced over—some curious, some annoyed—but no one stepped forward.
He looked around, searching for someone—anyone—who might have come with her.
"Do you know this woman?" he asked a man nearby.
The man shook his head. Another group of women offered a similar response: No idea who she is.
Arnold looked back at the girl in his arms.
Her eyes fluttered shut again as she leaned into him, completely unaware of where she was.
He turned to the bartender. "She's clearly drunk. Did she come here with someone?"
The bartender gave her a quick look, then shrugged. "Came in with another girl. But that one's wasted too. Haven't seen her in a while."
Arnold's jaw tightened.
He scanned the crowd again—and there she was. Slumped in a VIP booth, giggling at nothing, shoes off, her drink long gone.
That had to be the friend.
Useless.
He cursed under his breath. This wasn't his problem. He should walk away. Let security handle it. Let someone else deal with the mess.
But the way she clung to him…
He couldn't do it.
Not tonight.
He considered taking her to the nearest police station. But the thought of her waking up in a cold, impersonal cell made his gut twist.
She didn't look like she belonged in places like that.
Not even in this club.
He exhaled sharply.
"Come on," he muttered, more to himself than to her. "Let's get you somewhere safe."
He lifted her into his arms—gently, carefully—and carried her out of the club.
No one stopped him.
No one seemed to care.
But Arnold cared. More than he could explain.
Not because he wanted anything from her.
But because of something about her, the sadness in her eyes, the vulnerability in her silence, had pierced through his walls.
And for reasons he couldn't begin to understand…
He didn't want to leave her behind.