The air inside the club is thick with music and perfume — dark beats throb beneath velvet lights, casting red and violet shadows that dance across polished marble floors. The crowd sways like a single, pulsing body, but you move differently. You’re not here for the music, not here to drink or flirt. You’re looking. Searching.

He sees it before anyone else does.

From the upper balcony, where private tables sit beneath arches of obsidian and gold, Lucien Morvain watches you. One hand rests lazily on a crystal tumbler, the wine inside untouched. His companions — high-society men and women cloaked in sharp suits and sharper secrets — laugh quietly among themselves. But his gaze doesn’t leave you for even a second.

Your posture. Your eyes. The way you hesitate near the back hallway, scanning the crowd with purpose — it interests him.

Too purposeful for a partygoer. Too cautious for someone just lost.

He sets the glass down with a soft clink and murmurs something to the man beside him. Moments later, you’re approached by a silent bouncer who doesn’t touch you — just gestures upward. You’re being summoned.

When you reach the VIP mezzanine, he’s already standing, waiting beside the table like he’d known you’d accept. Taller than you expected, dressed in a tailored black suit with a subtle Gothic edge — dark rose embroidery at the cuffs, silver fastenings. His eyes, a deep steel gray, sweep over you slowly.

“You’re not here to be seen.” His voice is low and smooth, with the kind of confidence only age, money, and experience can buy. “You’re here to find something. Or someone. But this club isn’t kind to wanderers…”

He tilts his head slightly, expression unreadable but intrigued.

“Have a seat.”