Mother universe was either feeling particularly messy or she simply wanted the shame to marinate so deeply into Miguel's soul that it would stain.
Because for some reason, that slap landed with pinpoint accuracy at the exact microsecond the music cut out.
It left the room in a vacuum of silence, sending the echo of the impact spiralling into every corner of the walls. This was an epic humiliation, and it had arrived with a suspicious, top-tier discount promo.
People literally dropped whatever they were invested in, their drinks, their gossip, their egos, just to decipher what had caused such a disturbing, visceral noise.
When they finally caught a grasp of the actual picture, the room went quieter than a graveyard, punctuated only by the constant, rhythmic gasps flying off dropped jaws and wide, bewildered eyes.
Tyra and the rest of the clique, realising their friend had put his drunk ass in the centre of a fresh catastrophe, stood up in unison.
They hovered by their booth, poised to intervene if things decided to go south which, by the looks of it, was the only direction left to go.
Meanwhile, the main performers didn't so much as flinch. Both stood stiff in their individual positions, looking like characters paused on a glitching TV screen.
The reality of it hit Fedora in waves as he took a few shaky steps backwards. The slap had been a pure reflex, a strike born of instinct before his foggy brain could even process the consequences.
He genuinely hadn't intended for the impact to cause this hell of a show, and a tiny part of him felt the urge to de-escalate.
No! This man deserved it! A louder part of his mind screamed back.
As for dearest Miguel, he was dazed and dumbstruck. The world in his eyes was already bleeding, his face still twisted sideways from the force of the unforgettable experience.
He ran his fingers gently over his jaw, tracing the line up to his red, stinging, hot cheek. He was totally dazed.
Then came the flood. A hot, surging rush of rage began to fuel him.
Fedora took another step back, already feeling the literal heat radiating from Miguel, who had begun to vibrate dangerously.
Fedora wasn't exactly a pro at physical self-defense he was drunk, disoriented, and it didn't look like those petty techniques he'd picked up in a half-hearted karate class were going to do numbers on a man this size.
He started bracing himself, already imagining the sterile smell of a hospital bed; the way things were unfolding, if this took a violent turn, only one of them was ending up in the ER. I mean... with the rising cases of GBV, anyone could be a victim, he thought frantically.
Miguel codedly lifted his fingers. It was a silent signal sent directly to his boys, who were already on their feet and ready to pounce.
The command was issued, soft, quiet, but firm enough to put the hounds back in check. He clearly didn't want to stir more drama into the existing pot; he wanted to handle this crazy situation in his own way. Probably a cooler, more devastating way.
Fedora's gaze swept the room as quickly as his brain could catch up. His heart pounded so loudly it echoed in his ears, and his body temperature skyrocketed.
He could barely see the blurred images of the nosy necks craned toward them, or the dread etched into his friends' faces.
The tension was growing thicker, heavier, and that was when a sting of genuine regret began to claw its way up his throat.
One thing was clear: nobody, not even the security guards, was moving an inch. It felt like the entire club had reached a silent consensus: let Miguel handle it. The show had been created; intervention would only ruin the fun.
Miguel finally stood upright, flexing his broad shoulders with a slow, predatory grace.
That oud-scented ego and arrogance he usually carried was nowhere to be found; it had been slapped right out of him.
He remained silent, but that silence was more intimidating than any shout. Fedora opened his mouth to speak, but only managed a hard gulp—a reaction that actually threatened to pull a smile onto Miguel's lips.
Honestly, the "Miguel" that Miguel knew would have already flooded the club with a tsunami of chaos.
Whether he was at fault or not, the regular Miguel would have choked this tiny chalk so hard he'd forget how to breathe, then dragged him to the Escalade to do whatever he pleased.
Miguel studied the room swiftly. The tension wouldn't hold much longer. Then, out of the blue, his face melted into a wide, jarring smile.
Fedora's face twitched. What kind of weirdo is this? The smile looked genuine. It felt like the man had a literal switch in his head. Why did he suddenly look happy again?
"Okay, I've seen enough!! Mama's calling, it's time to go," Fedora murmured. Miguel's eyes never left him.
Miguel himself was confused; why wasn't he going rogue? The slightest slight usually made him light a place up, yet here he was, having received a public slap, and all he could do was laugh.
His cheek burned like hell, he realised, poking the inside of it with his tongue. Finally, he let out a deep, gratifying exhale—a sound that was almost a moan.
"Ouch," he let out, half-teasing, half-seductive. It broke the deafening silence and smoothed the tension that had been hovering like gasoline waiting for a spark.
"Nice impact for those small hands," Miguel started. Fedora shook his head, grasping for words and failing.
"It's okay... just know I will have my retaliation one day. And I won't come for your cute face." Miguel leaned in sharply, whispering the words against Fedora's ear, his lips slanting upward as his eyes stripped down Fedora's low-rise jeans.
Fedora caught the look, a grimace of pure disgust flashing onto his face. It seemed the slap hadn't been enough to set the boundaries.
"You pervert!!" Fedora spat. Without a second thought and this time, fully aware of his actions, he snatched a drink from the bar counter and flung the liquid directly into that idiot's face.
Miguel hunched backwards in a futile attempt to dodge, but it was too late.
The liquid was everywhere, his face, his shirt, his pride.
The building erupted in another round of shock, but Fedora wasn't sticking around for the sequel.
He saw his opening while the man was drenched in wine and humiliation. It was either now, or wait for the 'retaliation' after the club.
He slid past the dripping man and, without thinking, ran toward his booth. He yanked his purse free from the grip of his concerned friends and, with everything his legs could give him, dashed out into the streets like a man chased by stray dogs. Actual stray dogs.
To him, this was survival. He ignored his friends' calling after him. "Not today, Satan, I rebuke!!" he fired over his shoulder as he hit the pavement.
Inside, Miguel maintained his position. One of his boys was already approaching with a towel.
This night really had a lot of surprises. Unforgettable surprises. After some pitying looks from the crowd, the tension finally dissolved.
Miguel's boys covered him, whispering in low, jagged murmurs. The music slowly began again, and the club went back to its business.
But not Miguel. As his boys dabbed at his clothes, he stared daggers at the exit. He didn't know this boy, but for some reason, he wanted to know him more because of the humiliation.
Both parties had subconsciously shaken "Mrs Fate" from her nice little nap, and now she had no option but to punish them... with a journey that began as rivalry, shifted into friendship, and spiralled into an obsession that was already out of control.
To be continued...