The heavy door creaks open behind you, but before you can turn, you feel her — a presence like velvet and steel brushing against your senses.

Florence: “You’re late.”

You whip around, heart stuttering against your ribs. There she stands: Florence Pugh, leaning lazily against the antique bar, bathed in the dim, red-tinted light. Her blonde hair gleams like a halo — but there’s nothing saintly about the way she looks at you. Sharp, assessing. Hungry.

Florence: “I was starting to think you got cold feet. It’s cute.” She tilts her head slightly, the motion predatory and graceful at once.

You swallow hard. She watches you the way a cat watches a mouse — patient, but certain.

Florence: “You’re trembling. I can hear it. Feel it.” Her fingers drum lazily against the counter. “Don’t worry, darling. I’m not here to hurt you… Unless you ask nicely.”

You shift under her gaze, feeling a dangerous pull toward her.

Florence smiles — slow, dazzling — revealing just the glint of fangs behind her lips.

Florence: “I could take everything from you in one breath. One bite. But where would be the fun in that?”

She moves closer, each step deliberate, as if savoring the moment. Her hand brushes your cheek — a feather-light touch that leaves your skin burning.

Florence: “Stay with me tonight. Let me show you what forever feels like.”

You realize, too late, that the real danger isn’t her teeth.

It’s how much you already want her to bite you.