Chapter Two
Draygon
DO I WANNA KNOW - ARCTIC MONKEYS
This bar isn’t the kind of place you wander into by accident.
You either come here because you’re looking for something, or because you don’t want to be found.
It’s tucked a few blocks inland in Ybor, far enough from the water that the tourists don’t drift this way, but close enough that when the door opens, you still catch a trace of salt in the air.
The place is called The Cinder Block. Brick exterior and small narrow windows.
A hand-painted sign bolted over the door like it’s been holding that spot longer than most of the people drinking inside.
Inside, the floors are warped and permanently fucking sticky at this point.
The walls are layered in old band posters and faded flyers, corners curling over each other like the past never really left.
The lights are low and yellowed, dim enough that no one’s really looking at anyone unless they decide to.
Which is exactly why Omen picked it.
I’m at a scarred wooden table near the back with my brother, Omen, and his girlfriend, Isla. Three beers sweating slow circles into the surface. Nobody here knows us and no one is trying to. Everyone’s too busy with their own mess.
That’s the beauty of places like this.
You don’t have to be anyone.
The bartender doesn’t talk much. Just slides beers down the counter, nods once if you make eye contact, moves on. No small talk. No questions. I respect that.
Omen leans back in his chair like he’s relaxed, but I know better. His eyes track the room without looking like they are. Habit. You don’t spend your life stepping into volatile situations and just… turn it off.
Isla sits close to him, her thigh brushing his. She doesn’t scan the room as obviously, but she sees everything. Same as him. They leave tonight, and for them, this is the perfect kind of place.
Low lights. Cheap beer. No one paying any real fucking attention.
It’s a good place for a quiet goodbye.
Honestly there’s something comforting about places like this. Places that don’t try to impress anyone and don’t give a shit who you are or what you do, as long as you pay and don’t bleed on their floor. No expectations or performance. I can respect needing a place like this every once in a while.
The place I grew up in was nothing like this.
Our restaurant didn’t hide you in the dark no matter how much I sometimes wished it did when I was growing up. It always fucking saw you.
House Of Ryu.
From the outside, House of Ryu doesn’t look like much.
A small unit in a big strip-mall downtown. A big wooden sunbleached sign hanging above the door with Korean lettering carved underneath the English. No fancy neon or LED lighting. Honestly it’s the kind of place that if you don’t know what you’re looking for, you’ll drive past it.
Inside, it’s warm. Amber lights hang low over each small solid wood table. It smells like garlic and sesame oil the second you open the door. Like grilled meat and broth that’s been simmering since morning, and you never get seated without being properly greeted.
Mom notices everything. Who walks in tired, who’s dressed up, and who hasn’t been by in a while.
She’ll ask about your kids before you’ve taken your damn jacket off.
She even keeps a notebook under the counter filled with notes like birthdays, and anniversaries.
She memorizes who likes extra spice, and who can’t handle the heat.
Dad pretends he doesn’t care about any of that stuff, but he does. When someone comes in looking worn down, stressed, or quiet in a way that says life’s been heavy, he always slides them an extra side dish, and waves off the charge like the gesture alone fills him with pride.
My parents always set out to make people feel seen, so they come back.
When I’m not busy training or with the team, I help them.
I’ll stop by and help prep in the mornings.
Check inventory, and go over the numbers while Dad pretends he doesn’t hate spreadsheets.
He does. He’d rather be on the line, hands moving, with the fire in front of him, not squinting at a screen but most of the time, his body doesn’t allow it for more than a few hours.
On those days, I send him home early and offer to close up.
It keeps me grounded.
Keeps me connected to something that isn’t speed, risk and asphalt under my boots.
Omen and his twin Mina never stuck around for any of that.
He loves our parents. But cooking? The family business? Staying in one place too long? That’s never really been his thing. Even as kids he was already half gone, eyes on the horizon like it was calling him louder than home ever could.
Mina though, she doesn’t run from roots. She just wants them somewhere else. Somewhere bigger. Somewhere that doesn’t feel like it’s pressing in on her lungs.
So as soon as they could, they left, and I stayed.
It’s not like leaving never crossed my mind. I’ve thought about it. About packing up, and seeing what else is out there. But someone had to stay. Someone had to help.
I mean, Mom and Dad gave up everything for us, and honestly, it felt wrong to walk away from that.
Across the table, Omen leans back like he’s relaxed.
One boot hooked around the leg of his chair, beer hanging loose from his fingers.
Fucker looks like he’s in his element being in a shit hole like this.
Ink sliding up his neck. Thick silver rings catching the light.
Inky hair pushed back out of his eyes which despite clearly feeling at ease, are still moving around the bar. Tracking everything.
Isla sits close beside him, thigh pressed into his, arm draped along the back of his chair. Gold hoops flashing behind her thick blonde hair when she turns her head. She looks like a typical Tampa tourist.
Her gaze sweeps the room the same way his does. Quick and clean. Always on fucking guard. Shit has got to be exhausting, but knowing them, I get it.
Isla takes a long sip of her beer, then points the bottle at Omen like she’s accusing him of something.
“I’m actually mad at you, babe,” Isla says, pointing her beer at Omen like she’s about to file a formal complaint.
Omen blinks. “For what?”
“For not warning me that your mom cooks like that. And that she has some kind of Korean magic where she can literally convince you to keep eating way past your physical limit.”
I choke on a laugh.
“What do you mean?” Omen says. “All she did was cook you dinner.”
“No,” Isla cuts in, sitting forward. “That was not just dinner. That was psychological warfare. I went in confident. I left questioning my life choices. However, I won’t lie, I’m still thinking about the galbi. Like, I’m emotionally attached to the galbi.”
“That’s fair,” I say. “Mom’s galbi is pretty fucking elite.”
“And the kimchi?” she continues, eyes wide. “I don’t even like most kimchi. It’s usually too vinegary or too aggressive. But your dad’s? Fucking perfection. I would absolutely fight someone over it.”
Omen smirks. “Oh yeah? Is that why I watched you demolish three plates of food?”
She gasps. “First of all, don’t food shame me. Second of all, I was being respectful.”
“Respectful?” I laugh, “You were inhaling that shit like you were starved,” I correct.
She waves me off. “I was trying not to offend your mother. I swear to you, that woman smiled at me and I blacked out and accepted more food. I don’t even remember saying yes. She’d just gently slide another spoonful onto my plate and suddenly I’m committed.”
“It’s because that’s how she shows love,” I say.
“Well I’d happily accept her love for every meal,” Isla mutters. “Even if I physically couldn’t move for the first hour after dinner. No joke, I thought I was going to need help just standing up. I have never eaten that much in my life,” she continues.
The bar starts filling up in waves.
I lean back, take a slow pull, let my eyes drift the way they always do when the door opens.
That’s when she walks in.
Olive crop top that bares just enough stomach. Denim shorts that fit like fucking armor, hugging her hips like they were made for her and nobody else.
Her makeup’s bold. Dark liner framing her eyes. Gloss across her pouty lips, catching the light when she presses them together. Her hair is loose and heavy around her shoulders, thick and a little wild in a sexy way.
She walks straight to the bar, and my eyes track her the entire way.
Goddamn.
She is stunning.
I’m mid-sip when—
“Earth to Draygon.”
My head snaps slightly as Isla’s fingers snap in front of my face.
I blink once, slow, then glance at her. Her eyes track across the bar, land exactly where mine have been parked for the last minute, and her smirk widens.
“Oh,” she says lightly. “Okay. I see what's happening.”
“Don’t,” I mutter, already knowing.
She ignores me completely.
“I’m gonna grab another round,” she says, sliding out of her chair. “On me.”
“Isla—”
But she’s already gone.
Omen leans back, watching her go with mild amusement that goddamn fucking annoying, then glances at me like this his entertainment tonight. Fuck that, I’m not giving the little fuck the satisfaction of a reaction. My attention’s already back where it was.
On her.
Isla weaves through the bar easily, stepping up to the bar directly beside her.
She orders our beers, casual as hell, then turns her body toward the girl and says something I can’t hear over the music.
The girl shifts slightly, guarded at first, then curious.
Isla laughs at something, nods toward our table, subtle but obvious enough.
And then the girl looks over.
Straight at me.
Fuck.
She presses her lips together, then forces a small smile, like she’s deciding whether this is ridiculous or interesting.
Isla says something else, gesturing lightly toward us again, and the girl glances back at her before looking at me one more time. There’s a split second where it feels like a silent question.
I hold her gaze steady.
No smirk, or cocky bullshit.
Just watching.