All That's Wrong With Us

The moment Johan stepped into the bar, the air shifted.

It was subtle at first, just a ripple of unease rolling over the crowd. The neon lights flickered against sweat-slicked walls, the bass thumped beneath the floor, and the overwhelming stench of alcohol and blood thickened in the space. But none of it registered. Not the jeering, not the drunken cheers, not the mindless amusement of those watching.

Because Johan had arrived.

He moved at his own pace, without rushing or force. His presence alone sliced into the chaos, dark and heavy. Absolute.

One by one, people stepped back without thinking, instinct overriding curiosity. Muscles tensed, conversations hushed, and the laughter that once filled the bar thinned into uneasy murmurs. It was primal in some way, an unspoken recognition of something dangerous in their midst, something that demanded space without asking for it.

Johan's gaze quickly swept the scene, before he saw him. North. His North. Sprawled on the floor, motionless.

A chill knifed into Johan's chest, unforgiving and cold. Breath slowed, the world narrowing to the single, lifeless figure, collapsed amid the wreckage of the fight. What if he was too late? What if North wasn't just hurt but far worse? The thought coiled around the ribcage like a curse, but Jo crushed it down, swallowing the weight of it as gaze locked onto the delicate, battered form on the filthy floor. He looked fragile. Exposed.

Even in the dim lighting, bruises bloomed like ink blots against pale skin, a thin trail of blood staining split lip, making him look even smaller. His chest rose and fell in shallow exhales, but the sight of him, silent, defenseless, crumpled amidst broken glass and spilled alcohol, made something deep in Johan's core twist, tighten, burn. He looked broken. A knot of something dark curled tight inside him.

The thought hit harder than it should have, settling like rusted metal in Johan's throat, leaving a bitter taste. His stomach twisted, and a heat crawled beneath the skin, not guilt, not pity. Johan didn't do pity.This was different, hot, invasive, entirely unwelcome. Something he wasn't sure he could control.

Suddenly, Temp lunged, a blur of motion at North's side, and he went rigid. The rage came fast, deep and lethal, as Temp wasn't just standing over North, he had him pinned. Straddling narrow waist, fist raised, jaw set in a ruthless smirk, completely at ease with his own viciousness. Adrenaline surged through Jo's veins, blistering and fast, cutting past the initial shock.

Temp grabbed North's collar, trying to haul him up, only to slam him down with bone-rattling force. Johan moved. Everything else, sound, space, the people around him, faded into static. Only this moment remained. And Temp never even saw him coming.

An iron grip caught Temp's wrist mid-motion. The crack of Johan's grasp locking down was harsh, final, an executioner's sentence, shattering the noise , resembling a gunshot. Temp barely had time to react before the world tilted. In a second, Johan wrenched his arm, shifting weight effortlessly, and with an almost lazy motion, Temp was thrown to the ground like a ragdoll.

The impact shook the floor, chairs screeching against tile, a shockwave of motion as people scrambled away. A murmur of gasps spread across the crowd, the once-eager spectators now stepping back, unsure if they even should be watching.

North's friends were still on the floor, bruised and battered, barely holding themselves together as they shielded North's unconscious form. Their features, streaked with sweat and dust, turned toward Johan in silent desperation, wide-eyed, breathless, shaken. For a moment, they didn't even move, then a slow, stunned exhale escaped Nao. His fingers curled into the ground, like gripping it was the only thing keeping him grounded.