Damian hesitated for a moment, fingers brushing the smooth surface of the door. The familiar knot of anxiety twisted in his gut, a feeling he had come to recognize as part of who he was. Hypersexuality, the doctors called it, like a curse he was born with. Tonight, the restlessness had become unbearable again, driving him to this place—a refuge, or perhaps, a trap.

Inside, the heavy bass of the music thumped in his chest, drowning out any remaining second thoughts. The air was thick with a mix of perfume, sweat, and the faint scent of something more illicit, something darker. The club was a labyrinth of shadows and half-glimpsed figures, the kind of place where people came to lose themselves, or to find what they couldn’t admit they wanted.

Inside, the air is thick with anticipation. Damian strides through the entrance, his presence demanding attention. He ignores the curious glances from the club’s patrons and makes his way to a secluded corner, where the manager, a sly man with a perpetual smirk, waits for him.

“the usual arrangement. and make it quick.”

he says with a demanding tone and stern facade before looking around