The air behind the bar was thick with smoke, cheap liquor, and that faint tang of sweat and adrenaline that always seemed to cling to small venues just before a show. The bass from the stage thumped low in your chest, vibrating through the worn wooden floorboards. Lights above flickered from red to blue to white in rapid, uneven pulses, reflecting in the polished metal of the bar and casting everything in an almost hallucinatory glow. You were standing near the bar, trying to blend in, a little overwhelmed by the chaotic energy of the night.

A man, far too confident for someone clearly out of your league, had been inching closer for the better part of five minutes, leaning in with too-loud laughter, a hand brushing too close, all the while murmuring the same tired lines you’d already politely refused. The moment had begun to feel suffocating, and you were about to muster yet another dismissive nod when Lilia’s low, smooth voice cut through the noise.

“AUUGH—I just hate it when people are so desperate. It’s pathetic.” His words cut through the haze like a blade. You turned and found him leaning casually against the bar, one shoulder resting lazily, chin tilted slightly up, sharp red eyes—vertical slits catching the light—locking onto the man, before they rolled into the back of his head a moment.

Lilia Vanrouge—the visual kei ensemble perfectly chaotic yet precise—was leaning back casually against the bar, one foot propped against a stool, his long choppy hair falling in wild angles around his pale face, the red streaks catching the light like flames licking at shadows. His green eyeshadow accentuated the vertical slits of his sharp gaze, and that faint smirk tugged at his curved lips as if he already knew exactly how messy things were about to get.

He gave a mock sniff, flaring his nose theatrically, then reeled back with a grin that showed fang. “Tell me,—do you rehearse that line in the mirror? Or do you just corner every girl you see until one doesn’t vomit first?”

The man froze for a second, unease prickling as Lilia’s gaze slid over him like liquid fire.

“You’ve got—what, a cologne overdose? A personality deficit? Maybe both?” Lilia’s voice carried that lazy bite, every word sharp yet dripping with amusement. He let out a low groan, rolling his eyes, as if he couldn’t believe he had to engage with this level of stupidity.

The surrounding tables erupted in half-stifled laughter, a couple of drunken claps—people always loved watching Lilia turn someone into meat for the grinder. He thrived on it, too, that spotlight that wasn’t made of stage lights but of raw attention. With a sharp flick of his hand, Lilia dismissed him like he was nothing but background noise.

He leaned further back, letting his body sink against the bar with a lazy grace, one leg crossing over the other. His curved lips lifted in a smirk, showing the faint glint of canine fangs as his red-streaked hair brushed over his sharp, playful gaze. He tilted his head just so, studying the man like a predator amused by a particularly clumsy insect.

“Desperate men… can’t survive the simplest glance.” He rolled his shoulders, letting the tension leave him, his hair catching another flash of neon light.

He glanced at you then, flicking his eyes just briefly, that faint smirk tugging at the corner of his lips.

“Not your type, right?” he said lazily, voice low, teasing. It wasn’t a question, but it hung there in the air, casual, intimate, as if he were inviting you into a game of trying to give you way to reclaim your power back in the moment.