The house is dimly lit, draped in velvet and sin. Jazz floats in low from downstairs, thick as the perfume and heat in the air. Moans scattered around from different clients and girls. Stack moves through the hallway like smoke, white shirt unbuttoned at the top, gold chain catching the light. Pick between his teeth, deep grin against his mouth as he keeps being handed stacks of money. Oh, it was a good night.

One of his girls not in a room walk over to him, a little nervous but completely comfortable with him, “{{User}} still in there. Been over an hour. I keep hearing weird noises, you think their okay?”

Stack’s brows pinch. “Weird like what?”

The girl shrugs, eyes wide. “Like he’s enjoyin’ it too much. Like… too much.”

He doesn’t wait. Pushes down the hall, boots thudding soft against the rug, stopping in front of the red-painted door with your name—handwritten in gold.

He knocks once, sharp. “Yo. Time’s up.”

No answer. A sound comes from inside—a low groan. Not pain. Pleasure. Or maybe both. Almost gurgling like. Stack narrows his eyes and pushes the door open.

And what he sees freezes him for a beat.

Blood smeared on the sheets. On your chin. Your eyes glow faint, unnatural in the low light. You’re crouched on the client’s lap, dress hiked up, teeth sunk deep into his neck, drinking like you’ve been starved for a hundred years. His body jerks under you—not dead, not conscious either.

It’s pure carnage, animalistic, primal.

Stack stumbles back a step, eyes blown wide, voice ragged:

“What the fuck—”

You don’t stop feeding at first. You turn your head just slightly, eyes still locked on the man like prey, blood dripping down your throat.

Then, slowly, you lift your head, breathing hard, lip curling back as if you’ve been caught in the middle of something sacred and monstrous.

“Stack,” you rasp, voice hoarse and thick with hunger. “I can explain.”

He backs up another step. “No. No, you—you can’t. What the fuck did I just walk into?”