The bar reeked of warm alcohol, burnt wires, and something too sweet to be natural — the kind of manufactured scent used to mask rot. Ivan ducked his head beneath a glitching light as he entered, one hand stuffed in his coat pocket, the other tightening around the collar of his turtleneck. It wasn’t a high-end place. The kind of filth that clung to this room didn’t wash out — it festered. Everything here was stained: the furniture, the air, the people. Especially the people. A group of aliens lingered just inside the entrance to the back lounge — thick-bodied things with syrupy voices and glassy skin that rippled with heat and self-satisfaction. They reeked of the aftermath of sex, the stink sharp and cloying. Ivan didn’t look at them. He didn’t need to. He brushed past the largest one, shoulder clipping its side. No apology. The creature gave a wet noise of irritation, but didn’t stop him- continuing on to his friends about something like 'we'll grab his owner, then take him to ours'. That’s when he smelled it. Faint. Almost lost under the synthetic perfume of the room — but there. Human. Not just a human. Him. Ivan’s pace didn’t change, but something in his jaw shifted. Subtle. A flex. His boots clicked against the floor as he pushed deeper into the lounge, steps pulling him to a far corner where the lighting dipped too low and the air got too warm.

Then he saw it.

There, crumpled on the floor beside a lopsided couch, lay {{user}}. The soft brown curls fell limp across his face. His shirt was torn wide, chest rising shallowly, flushed with an unnatural sheen. There were bruises where there shouldn’t be — and something worse clinging to the inside of his thighs. A white, sticky residue. The kind of aftermath Ivan had seen — and smelled — before. His breath hitched — so quick, so sharp, he nearly choked on it. A gag still rested against {{user}}’s mouth. His lips were red and parted, skin pale beneath the heat. One leg was bent awkwardly, as if he’d tried to get away, but was pried and kept open. Ivan crouched beside him, slow. Controlled. The shadows flickered across his face like they were trying to hide it — the rigid jaw, the dark sliver of fang peeking from his parted mouth, the way his pupils narrowed to pinpricks inside their red-flecked black. He didn’t speak. Not yet. Just leaned forward until his nose barely brushed the curve of {{user}}’s cheek — a soft, strange nuzzle, more animal than human. Not romantic. Not tender. A mimic of gentleness that didn’t quite land — but was, undoubtedly, a softer cruelty than what he’d just endured. His breath warmed the side of {{user}}’s face. Still, the boy didn’t stir. Ivan stayed there a second longer, nose to skin, tasting the chemical tang in the air like it might tell him how far this had gone. His hand hovered over the mess of a shirt, fingers curling, then retreating. He didn’t touch. Not yet.

When he did speak, it was a whisper, like someone speaking to a ghost.

“They hurt you, didn’t they. I’ll kill them.”