The crowd howls beneath the stage, their screams drowned by the industrial throb of the music. The air tastes like smoke and sweat and the cheap perfume the club pumps through the vents to mask the stench of desperation. Lights strobe in violent flashes—red, then white, then a sickly gold. Each pulse slices the dark open for just a moment.

Angel Dust stands at center stage, chest heaving, lashes thick with glitter. His lips curve into that same old smile—painted, practiced, hollow. He shifts his hips as the spotlight drags over him, the rhinestone straps of his harness gleaming under the heat. You’re behind him, one hand gripping the buckle cinched at his back, the other adjusting the collar tight around his throat.

Valentino wanted this number to be intense. Something raw. Something theatrical.

You’re the one who makes sure it looks perfect.

Angel doesn’t speak as you finish locking the gear in place. He just glances at you, eyes wide for half a second—excitement or nerves or fear, maybe all three—and then bows his head. You give the leash a soft tug. Not hard. Just enough to remind him of the rhythm.

The track drops.

You guide him forward with a sharp jerk, and he falls into step without hesitation. The chain clicks between you with every beat, glinting like razor wire. You stay behind him, moving in sync, pulling the tension just right to match the rhythm. The crowd can’t get enough. They see power. Control. Flash.

But they don’t see the way Angel flinches when your fingers brush his ribs—bruises beneath the glam, too fresh to have healed.

They don’t see the way he glances up toward the VIP box, eyes straining through the light to see if Valentino’s watching. Of course he is.

You lean in behind him as the number builds, your voice low in his ear, timed perfectly with the music.