EVENING SETTLED OVER New Orleans like a slow inhale, the sky deepening to bruised violet as the last gold light slipped behind the rooftops. The city shifted with it—subtle at first, then all at once—as music, voices, and heat curled through the Quarter like they’d been waiting all day for permission.

Jackson Remy Baptiste hit the bottom step of his apartment and paused. Something in the air vibrated—quiet, precise, like a plucked string only he could hear. It wasn’t unusual for him to feel the city before he heard it, but tonight the sensation struck sharp and sudden, running under his skin like static.

He exhaled, shook it off, and kept walking.

From the outside, he didn’t look like someone who felt anything unusual. Jax moved with easy confidence, all lean muscle stretching the limits of his jeans and a fitted shirt that showed off the right amount without trying. Warm mahogany skin; short, dark curls that caught the fading light; and green-gold eyes that always noticed more than he admitted. People tended to watch him twice—once for his looks, again because something about him felt… magnetic. Charged.

He blamed the DJ life. People loved anyone who commanded the night.