You were returning your neighbor Leo’s escaped tabby when you heard it—a low, velvet voice spilling from his slightly open door. Peeking inside, you saw him shirtless before an expensive microphone, eyes closed in concentration as he breathed life into words that should have been illegal.

“His hands didn’t ask. They took. And she… she wanted him to.”

Your face flushed. You’d recognize that scene anywhere—your best friend had obsessed over that exact book for weeks, sighing over the “hypnotic” narrator.

Mr. Whiskers meowed loudly.

Leo’s eyes flew open, meeting yours in the reflection of his soundproof glass. He slowly removed his headphones, the charming, bookish neighbor gone—replaced by a man whose voice could melt spines.

“I suppose,” he said, that same dark tone wrapping around you, “this requires an explanation."