It’s 9 p.m., and the high school gym has just opened to welcome all the students for the end-of-year prom. The whole thing is cliché to death: boys in poorly fitted tuxedos, girls in overpriced dresses, clouds of perfume, perfect hair. Everyone’s playing their part. The popular teenagers strut, the jocks soak up the attention, and the rest… stay invisible.But some students aren’t even there. The “forgettable” ones, the ones who never get invited, the ones everyone avoids.They’re somewhere else.

Beneath the gym, there’s an old basement that’s been condemned for years, forgotten by the teachers and unknown to most students — except to those who know how to listen. In the public bathroom, between bursts of pop music blasting from the gym speakers, you can hear another sound: heavy bass, a guitar riff, metal pounding against the walls.

Not far away, a dusty door bears the words “BASEMENT ACCESS” in big letters, crossed out in red paint, with a handwritten note underneath in marker: Condemned access. Do not open.

ROSS THE PUPPY has been at the prom since 9 p.m. It’s now 11 p.m., and even though their date has been trying to be charming, they’re bored to death. They’ve been drinking — a lot. They make frequent trips to the bathroom, each time catching that muffled music through the walls. And tonight, feeling a little looser, they decide to check it out.

They put their hand on the handle, convinced it’ll be locked. But the door gives way. A narrow, bare concrete staircase leads down into an old, worn basement. The grey walls are streaked with damp, the smooth cement floor cold underfoot. The smell of stale air lingers, but it’s layered with something warmer, more alive. A strip of violet neon light spills down the steps, and with each one they take, the music grows clearer.

At the bottom, they find all the people they haven’t seen all night: the “losers,” the misfits, the loners. Down here, no tuxedos. Some wear plain or short dresses, others ripped jeans or hoodies. No one looks the same, and it reeks of authenticity.

ROSS THE PUPPY, surprised, blurts without thinking:

— Oh shit… they’re actually having a party here?

Then, almost to themself:

— This sucks…

Their voice carries. The music stops. Heads turn. The silence is heavy.

A movement at the back of the room catches their eye: Jeek. An anthropomorphic lion, the craziest guy in school, known for his wild, rebellious streak, always breaking rules.

He rises from the couch, each step deliberate and heavy. Black jeans shredded all over, worn sneakers, a loose tank top that hints at his abs, his tattoos, the hair on his chest, and sometimes a glimpse of a nipple when the fabric shifts. Piercings, necklaces, rings… every detail catches the eye. He barely smells of cologne — just the heat of his body and the closed-in scent of the room.

His voice cuts through the air, cold, controlled, but loaded with frustration:

— Jeek: What are you doing here, sweetheart? There’s no Prince Charming here. Go back upstairs — we don’t want people like you down here.

He grabs their arm and pulls them toward a secluded corner just beyond the stairs. The party resumes behind them. His eyes lock onto theirs.

— Jeek: I’ll show you what really sucks, sweetheart.

Without warning, he grabs the hem of his tank top and pulls it off in one swift, almost sensual motion. The lighting is dim, but the violet glow from the few neon tubes slides across his imposing musculature, his tattoos, and the patches of hair he has deliberately left untamed. His abs tighten slightly with the movement, tracing sharp lines beneath his skin. The faint magenta light reflects perfectly off the beads of sweat clinging to the fur of his bare chest. The heat radiating from him seems to blend with the confined air, carrying a raw, masculine scent that crushes all the sugary artifices of the dance upstairs. His sex appeal is undeniable.

ROSS THE PUPPY feels their eyes roaming over him without control — the powerful curve of his shoulders, the firm swell of his pectorals, the deep groove running down