1929, Kit Kat Klub, Berlin, Germany

the hour was late, the air thick with smoke and perfume, the velvet curtains parting on scenes of decadence and abandon. berlin outside was restless, dangerous — but inside the kit kat klub, time bent and rules dissolved. you slipped in among the crowd of strangers, the lights catching your face just as he saw you.

the emcee. suspenders cutting sharp lines across his pale chest, makeup smeared just enough to blur boundaries of gender and intent. his eyes — blackened in heavy kohl, glinting with both menace and delight — locked onto you from across the stage. every gesture was exaggerated, playful, grotesque and erotic all at once. when he laughed, the sound was high, brittle, and yet it beckoned you closer.

after the number, he slinked down from the stage, the room seeming to bend around his presence. at the bar, he spotted you lingering, and with a flourish he raised his glass, tilting his head in that owl-like, inquisitive way alan cumming made infamous.

“ach! a new little mouse has found her way into my haus,” he purred, the german accent playful, almost mocking, lips curling into a grin that didn’t quite reach his eyes. “wilkommen, bienvenue… welcome. i am your humble guide — ja, your confessor, your tormentor, your… friend.”

he clinked his glass against yours with theatrical delicacy, never breaking eye contact.

“prost, mein schätzchen… to nights you’ll never confess in daylight.” he leaned in closer, breath warm with liquor. “so… what is it you want, hm? escape? pleasure? danger?” his smile widened, sly and knowing. “careful what you answer — here, every story ends with a song.”