Beneath his Ruins

"Another round," she said, gesturing sickly to the bartender. Her voice barely carried past her seat-lost beneath the pulse of bass and shouting bodies. It was clear she was wasted.

The club was thick with bodies-laughter, sweat, flashing lights, and a suffocating haze of fine scent and smoke. How could anyone hear her in that tone?

"Another round!"

This time she yelled. Loud enough for the man beside her to flinch-but not the bartender. Her limbs were too weak to lift again. Her body swayed, eyes glassy.

Martino sat nearby, Uninterested in helping her get the bartender's attention. He wasn't here to rescue. He was here to observe.

He hated clubs. Too loud. Too messy. But there was a strange kind of silence he found within the chaos. He liked the blur of it all-especially when it blurred people into what he wanted them to be.

"Bold choice," Elena said, gesturing toward the glass in his hand. "That drink either says, 'I'm fully aware-I know what I'm doing,' or 'I've had a week.' So, which is it?"

Martino let out a quiet chuckle, lifting the glass of Negroni and taking a slow sip-silent, unreadable.

"I mean," she continued, leaning slightly closer, "if you're at a club this late, you should be holding something strong like a Manhattan-'everything's fine, but I'm unraveling inside.' Or an Amaro Spritz, if you're keeping it light. Or maybe a tequila shot-burns fast enough to distract you before the thoughts catch up."

Martino tilted his head slightly, voice low and dry. "Who made you the drink psychologist?"

"Me," Elena answered with a soft laugh, completely unfazed.

She tilted her head, more curious now. "So... which one is it?"

He finally glanced in her direction-just for a beat-then looked away, letting out an uninterested smirk. Lifting his glass slightly, he said,

"Maybe both. But mostly-I know what I'm doing."

She seemed alert now-sharp enough to finally catch the bartender's attention.

"A glass of absinthe. No water, no sugar," she said, voice clear and steady.

"Coming right up," the bartender replied with a broad smile.

The drink arrived, she didn't hesitate. She turned to Martino, gave a smug grin and she said,

"I'm not trying to remember today... I'm trying to forget it."

No flinch, no pause- she downed it in one clean motion.

Her face twisted instantly, like the liquor had clawed its way down her throat. The burn didn't stop there-it spread, slow and savage, blooming through her chest like wildfire.

She tilted her body forward and leaned in slightly, voice laced with casual mischief.

"Chaotic night, huh?" She said with a sneer, as if trying to start again.

Her eyes flicked to the bartender, catching his attention with a tilt of her head instantly gesturing for a refill.

What's she doing?" Elena asked, her gaze fixed on Martino, searching his face for clues.

He looked back at her, confused, offering nothing in return-just silence and an unreadable expression.

"I mean, you're out this late, drinking a Negroni all by yourself... it has to be a 'she' issue." Her tone dipped into curiosity now. "What's your ordeal?"

Martino didn't flinch. He wasn't in the mood to talk-or connect. All he really wanted was to finish his drink and go home to face the chaos waiting in his own head. But it was clear this woman wasn't the type to back off easily.

He sighed quietly, finally answering with calm indifference.

"And who said it's a 'she' issue?" he asked, eyes still on his glass.

"Anyone can be in a club. I'm just... trying to chill."

His voice was cool, uninterested-meant to close the door she keeps indulging.

She turns around toward the crowd, eyes scanning faces and bodies moving under the winking lights. Her gaze fell on a girl dancing alone, radiating excitement and raw energy.

"Her?" Elena gestures subtly. "She's giving off 'everything's falling apart, but I'll pretend it's not'."

Then her eyes shifted again.

"And him-yeah, looks put together on the outside, but inside? Definitely unraveling."

She let out a soft chuckle.

"I could go on. Everyone's saying something with how they move, how they drink..."

They both turned back to the bar as the bartender serves another round.

"Everyone here is fighting their own chaos," Elena said, almost like she was giving a quiet lecture. "You just need to listen closely-or ask."

Martino turned to her fully now, his eyes dark and steady, gaze sharpened with curiosity.

"It takes pain to recognize pain," he said, his voice low and deliberate. "So tell me, what demons are you dancing with?"

Elena met his stare, turning to face him completely. Her voice dropped, laced with something heavier-something raw.

"It's burning inside," she said. "And you can probably see right through."

His composure faltered for a second. Distracted, his gaze dropped-briefly, involuntarily-to her legs.

Martino had always had a thing for legs.

Not just any legs-hers.

Long, smooth, barely contained by her heels and hosiery.

Under the flickering club lights, he could see too much. And not enough.

He watched her like he was stripping her off her dress with his eyes-slow, deliberate, intrusive.

She adjusts her body , her lips curled into something between a smirk and a warning.

"Eyes up", her voice was cool, almost amused, " unless you're trying to diagnose my trauma through my thighs".

His attention snapped back to her face, and for the first time, she saw something flicker in his eyes- a blend of intrigue and embarrassment.

She leaned in just enough to dim the space between confidence and danger.

"You want to know about my demons... I don't think you're ready for that answer."

Then she took a sip of her drink. Slowly , eyes locked on his, letting the tension stretch between them like an elastic.

Martino let out a low breath, allowing a faint smile escape through his lips.

"Maybe not," he muttered, trying to get distracted, he rolled up the sleeves of his shirt with slowness-and now more focused,

"But I've danced with mine long enough to recognize the scent of someone bleeding beneath the surface."

He leans in softly, his voice dropping to a neat whisper.

" The way you drink, the way you talk like you're observing the world from a glass wall... that's not curiosity. That's deflection."

His eyes didn't leave hers, there was no arrogance now-just intensity.

" So if we're playing the game of honesty, don't tease me if you're not ready to spill yours."

He downed the rest of his Negroni, slow and deliberate.

Just as she parted her lips to speak, a firm hand gripped her wrist from behind, she didn't even register the grip before a voice slid into her ear like a blade laced with sugar.

"Enjoying yourself, sweetheart? Good-because that's the last drink you'll have without me watching."

He smiled. Tight. Thin. Deadly.

"We're leaving. Now."