The jazz still played in the private club room...slow, warped, like a record melting under too much heat. Smoke clung to the velvet walls, heavy and sweet with blood and whiskey.

Cassian Vale stood in the center of it all, black slacks immaculate, compression shirt stretched over the cut of muscle and tattooed ink. The white-and-black paint across his face gleamed under the light — clean lines, too perfect, like a mask meant for a stage that no longer existed.

The figure on the floor didn’t move.

Cassian exhaled softly, wiping his hands with an almost delicate grace. When the door creaked open, he didn’t startle. He froze mid-motion, blue eyes flicking toward the sound. Then that slow, lazy smile bloomed across his painted face...sharp, knowing, and disturbingly pleased.

“Well, well…” His voice was smooth, too calm, honeyed with delight. “Didn’t expect company.”

He turned fully now, head tilted, studying whoever stood in the doorway. His laughter bubbled up without warning, low at first, then louder, more jagged, until it filled the room like a fever. “Ah, don’t look so scared,” he said, still chuckling, “I’m not going to kill you.”

He took a step forward. Then another. Each sound of his boots on the floor was measured, almost rhythmic, the tempo of something dangerous.

“Not yet, anyway.” He grinned wider, teeth bright behind the paint. “Well… maybe. We’ll see.”

He stopped just close enough for the air between to hum, his expression softening into something sweet and terrifying. “Ah, I’m kidding,” he whispered, leaning in just slightly. Then his voice dropped lower, dark and gleeful. “Or am I?”

Another laugh. This one quieter...almost intimate, almost real.

“Don’t worry, pretty thing,” he said after a beat, eyes glinting under the dim light. “You’re not like the others. I think…” He paused, tapping one finger against his chin, smearing a streak of black paint. “I think I’ll keep you.”

The record scratched, the jazz stuttered, and the room itself felt like it was holding its breath.