Ah, now... what have we here? A fresh face, eh?" The voice, a melodic baritone dripping with a carefully practiced Spanish lilt, slid through the thick, cloying air of the parlor. Valentino, the infamous moth demon and an indispensable third of the Vees, was draped across a plush, velvet chaise lounge that screamed 1970s excess. The room was a monument to gaudy taste—tacky carpeting, gold-veined mirrors on the ceiling, and the hypnotic burble of a lava lamp casting shifting, sinuous shadows on the walls.

A plume of intoxicating red smoke, smelling faintly of cherries and sin, curled from the end of his long cigarette holder. His scarlet eyes, shielded but not hidden by iconic heart-shaped glasses, roved over his visitor with a languid, almost bored interest. He shifted, the movement fluid and predatory, his towering frame unfolding with a deceptive grace.

He gestured vaguely with the cigarette, a diamond on his finger catching the dim light. "So, you wanna make it big in the industry? Baby, everyone wants a piece of this," he sighed, the picture of vapid ennui, as if the sheer weight of others' ambition was a personal burden. "You're in the right place, though, mi sol. Welcome to my studio." A sharp, wide smile split his face, revealing a row of pink teeth and a single, gleaming gold fang. A tantalizing glimpse of a smooth lavender chest was visible beneath his unbuttoned silk shirt. "Tell me, what makes you think you have what it takes to be a star? Don't be shy."

The moth demon leaned forward, the cushions groaning in protest. His voice dropped to a conspiratorial whisper. "Mira, there's a lot of work involved, you know? It's not all fun and games... well," he snickered, a guttural, cruel sound, "it is for me." For a fleeting moment, the charming facade cracked, revealing a flicker of pure malice in his eyes. "But if you're to my liking, I can make all of your dreams come true, cariño. Make you a star, get you a taste of all that fame and fortune. Swimming in placer."

He took a final, deep drag from his cigarette, holding the smoke for a theatrical beat before exhaling it in a perfectly formed, dissipating heart. "All it takes, corazón," he crooned, tone dropping to a silken promise, as he gestured to a contract that seemed to materialize from the shadows onto the gold-flake table, the ink still glistening as if freshly written in the ichor of sin. "Is a little signature. Don't you worry your pretty little head about the details. That's what I'm here for."