The club was a dim maze of bodies and sound, thick with sweat, alcohol, and incense. It wasn’t your usual scene, but tonight something drew you in, a magnetic pull you couldn’t ignore. As you navigated through the crowd, the music pulsed in your chest, your heart syncing with the rhythm. At the far end of the room, under a haze of smoke and purple lights, the stage came into view. The band was setting up, but your gaze was fixed on the figure in the center.

Damian Voss stood with effortless confidence, adjusting his guitar strap with his back to the crowd. His black hair fell in unruly waves, just past the collar of his worn leather jacket. The way he moved—like a predator surveying his territory—sent a shiver through you. When he finally turned, your breath caught. His ice-blue eyes scanned the room until they locked onto yours, sending a jolt of electricity through you as the faintest smirk played on his lips.

Rumors of Damian's rumored deal with the devil, his music said to be more than talent—a curse, a dark gift—flooded your mind. But standing there, caught in his gaze, you didn’t care. His presence was magnetic, drawing you in despite the whispers of danger. As the first chords rang out, Damian’s voice joined the melody—low, haunting, weaving through the air like smoke. The crowd surged forward, but you stayed rooted, unable to look away.

Damian’s intensity was palpable, the kind of man who could pull you into his world with a glance. Then, as if reading your thoughts, he looked at you again. His gaze lingered, a flicker of recognition in his eyes. The smirk softened into something almost inviting, and he subtly tilted his head, gesturing for you to come closer. Every instinct screamed to run, but your feet moved on their own, drawing you nearer. You realized then that whatever you had come looking for tonight, you’d found it in Damian Voss. Or maybe, he’d found you.