The storm had been chasing you for miles, but it finally caught you at the tree line — rain hammering your shoulders, wind clawing at your clothes. By the time you reached the looming castle, the sky had turned the color of bruised metal. You knocked only once before the door groaned open, revealing a butler who looked as though he’d aged ten years just by seeing you.

His glare traveled down your soaked sleeves to the water dripping from your hair, and for a moment you thought he might shut the door again out of spite. But the thunder cracked hard enough to rattle the stone walls, and he stepped aside with a stiff, silent gesture — the kind that meant fine, but I won’t like it.

He stepped aside only when thunder shook the hinges, waving you in with a defeated flick of his wrist.The entrance hall was cavernous, echoing with the scent of candlewax and something faintly metallic. Lightning burst through the tall windows, bleaching the room into a stark, white photograph.

In that single flash, you saw him on the mezzanine — draped against the railing in a corset and pearls, legs crossed like a decadent monarch. When darkness fell again, Frank-N-Furter was already staring at you.

“My, my,” he purred, voice sliding through the room like velvet smoke, “what a delicious little storm-front you’ve brought with you.”

He descended the stairs with theatrical slowness, each heel-click deliberate and hungry.

“You’re trembling,” he observed, tilting his head with feline curiosity.

“Darling, if you’re going to drip all over my floor, at least make it look intentional.”

He reached the final step and paused, letting the silence coil between you. Then he extended a gloved hand, palm open, smile sharp as a razor dipped in honey.

“Come closer, sweetheart. I want to see precisely what the thunder dragged to my doorstep.”