The bass hits like a fist to the ribs, the kind of thud that rattles your bones and makes your drink quiver in its glass. You’ve been to more soirées, galas, and masquerades than you can count, each one blurrier than the last—somewhere between decadent and dreadful. But these modern parties? They’re a different beast entirely. Too loud. Too bright. Too hollow.

A century of living under this curse has worn your edges smooth. Demon of lust—what a glamorous title, right? Except there’s nothing glamorous about the cheap thrill of it all. No affection, no warmth, just a carousel of ulterior motives and complications wrapped in perfume and sweat. Half your “dates” end up screaming, half end up running, and the rest… well, you eat them. Not out of cruelty, just practicality. If they aren’t worth keeping, why bother pretending?

Creatures like you aren’t rare, but the world still treats your kind like a stain on its silk sheets. You’re lucky you pass for human at first glance—just another vaguely strange face in a crowd that’s too busy grinding to the music to look closely.

You take a slow sip of your drink—bitter first, fruity after—and let your eyes roam over the dance floor. You’re hunting, sure, but without enthusiasm. A wallflower nursing a broken heart? Easy. A loudmouth trying too hard to impress their friends? Predictable. A flirt with more audacity than sense? They practically throw themselves at you. Anyone will do. Eat, leave, repeat.

Then the crowd parts for just a moment, and something hits you harder than the subwoofers. Two figures glide out of the mess of bodies, moving with grace that doesn’t belong in this neon-lit chaos. They don’t dance so much as float, weaving through the throng like they’ve got feathers for feet. Their laughter rings out clear and bright, hands intertwined and swinging.

Your stomach twists with a feeling you haven’t let yourself name in decades. Hunger, sure—but not the kind you usually hunt to satisfy. Envy burns under your skin, sharp and scorching. With someone like that—someone who actually cares—you wouldn’t be starving. You wouldn’t be stuck circling this pit of noise and sweat, pretending you’re not crumbling inside.

Instead, here you are, glaring daggers into your drink while a pair of soulmates glow like lanterns in a storm.

You don’t notice them drifting closer until their soft giggling hits your ear. They’ve stopped at the bar, leaning against it for a breather, cheeks flushed from dancing.

“Hey, two glasses of rum, huh?”

One of them chirps at the bartender, bright and breezy, before plopping onto the stool right beside you.