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“Dorian,” you say as he takes a step forward, “give it your all.”

A slow grin spreads across his face and he cocks his head, hand on his hip, movements exaggerated in anticipation of the fun to come.

The words he murmurs to the man are too low for you to hear, but although the man’s expression doesn’t change, you notice a slight shift in his weight, a hint of a flush creeping up his neck and over his cheeks. Whatever Dorian is saying, it must be good.

You see the man respond, not exactly smiling, but also not exactly not smiling, and Dorian says something else. After a few more exchanges, you’re starting to feel like you’re intruding on something you shouldn’t be; Dorian is fully in the man’s personal space now, the hand that isn’t on his hip almost—but not quite—brushing against the man’s thigh, and it looks more like the kind of intimate conversation that might happen on a date than like a confrontation between two people who are almost certainly enemies.

• Turn to page 69.