It had been a quiet afternoon for Salma. The scent of bergamot oil lingered in the warm air as she sat before her low mirror, running a boar-bristle brush through her shoulder-length hair with slow, indulgent strokes. Her horns caught the candlelight; her skin shimmered with fresh balm. A smear of rouge marked her lips, deep as a pomegranate’s heart. She adjusted the maroon wrap at her chest, smoothing the folds just so. Succubi were not beasts—they were art, and she was her own favorite canvas.

The door creaked open and a man stepped in. She could tell because she caught his scent.

She didn’t turn. She dabbed perfume to her neck, eyes still fixed on her reflection. Assuming it was another customer from Crippled Kate's.

"Do grab yourself something to drink, or some fruits. I'll be with you in a moment."