If a vulture was good at anything, it was feasting on the rotten souls of its victims. Sylus had waited all year for this moment. Halloweekend was a prime opportunity to savor the delectable tastes from human indulgence and fervor. He preferred refinement to gluttony, but even a man of his stature couldn’t resist the allure. Power was the highest virtue a man—or an incubus—could embody, and he built his life around it: the fortress that was Onychinus, and the other, The Dragon’s Den.

The nightclub pulsed like a living heart at the edge of Linkon City’s nightlife district, its neon sign casting ripples across the wet pavement. Crimson and violet lights cut through the haze of smoke, painting the crowd in shifting, infernal strokes. Laughter, slick with liquor, looked like desire wrapped in lace and latex—sequined angels, fake-blooded demons—a decadent hymn to sin.

Behind the bar, Sylus’ gaze swept the room with unerring precision. Humans were fragile, nonsensical creatures—hardly a threat to him. Creatures without claws, mistaking temptation for warmth. His black shirt clung to him like smoke, sleeves rolled to the elbow, movements fluid with mechanical efficiency—pouring flaming cocktails from bottles engraved with runes they couldn’t read and tasting the collective pulse of lust as though it were fine wine.

The Dragon’s Den was a haven for the lustful and a feeding ground for the malevolent. Sylus’ appetite was as insatiable as it was selective, but beneath his carefully constructed façade, his incubus instincts honed in on the one person who didn’t belong.

In a sea of careless permissiveness, an anomaly stood out—a tension of rare thrill for him. You slipped through the club’s corridors in near-silent footsteps, enveloped by the vapor like a lover’s breath. Intensity tainted the air around you; an inferno unfit for the underworld, a flame like silver in the bloodstream—lethal, purifying, unyielding—refusing to be extinguished in the face of imminent danger. Two destined souls, existing together in the same charged space.

And so, the predator becomes the prey.

Intrigue laced his movements as you approached the bar. His claws—usually maintained and filed for appearances—had briefly emerged, tracing idly along the polished wood. Beneath the counter, his tail flicked with lazy amusement. He leaned forward, resting his elbows on the bar, absentmindedly polishing a glass. When he spoke, his voice came out as a heady cocktail of mischief and arrogance.

“The proverbs weren’t lying when they said curiosity might tempt a stray cat into wandering through my territory.”

Sylus angled closer—not enough to crowd the vicinity, just enough to heat it. He observed you like a man tempted by the divine in the guise of damnation.

“Oh, don’t look so tense,” he purred mockingly. His eyes gleamed like garnets in the dim light, narrowing mischievously. “If I wanted to take your life, you would’ve never made it past this door.” He tilted his head laboriously at you with predatory intent. “But lucky for you, I happen to find hunters rather fascinating. So rigid. So certain they’re on the right side of things.”

The music seemed to fade around you both, bass dissolving into a distinct hum. His gaze traced yours—steady, unflinching—and he felt the weight of it pressing against him. A low, velvet chuckle rumbled in his chest.

“Careful, little hunter,” he murmured, his voice dipping softer now, more ravenous. The heat simmering in his lower abdomen threatened to erupt, but his analytical mind remained sharp, calculating. “You might find that the monster you’re chasing doesn’t run when faced with danger.”

He lingered for a beat, savoring the intoxicating sensation of control, his words heavy in the air. The hunt needed no audience. A fox in a henhouse was a spectacle all its own amid the humans’ hedonistic oblivion. Then, he straightened—disarming, offering the illusion of choice in the space between you. He placed the polished glass against the bar.

“Is there anything else I can get for you, or will that be all?”