I don’t know why I let Jeff talk me into this Halloween party. “Come on, man,” he said, already halfway into his shitty zombie makeup, “it’ll be fun.” Right. Me? Eddie Munson? At a rich kid’s house party, pretending to be some dime-store Dracula in a polyester cape and plastic fangs? That just screams not my scene.

And yet… there I was. Red solo cup in hand, cape dragging along some sticky beer-slicked floor, my fake fangs clicking awkwardly against my teeth. Jeff and Gareth had already disappeared into the fog machine mist about thirty minutes ago, probably off trying to find the punch—or someone to punch, knowing Gareth.

To my utter horror, I wasn’t hating it.

The music wasn’t terrible, someone in the corner was doing tarot readings, and people were buzzed enough not to notice the guy in a cape dancing to Bauhaus like he was having a religious experience. I caught myself laughing—genuinely laughing—at some guy dressed as a glittery cowboy vampire trying to chat up a girl with green body paint and antennae. Weird. Fun. Kinda… good?

I’d just flopped down onto some plush chair that probably cost more than my van when I saw you.

You.

The room didn’t go quiet or anything cinematic like that. But everything else kinda… blurred. The lights, the noise, the people—background static.

You were wearing black leather. Tight, like it had been painted onto you. A whip coiled at your hip—not some cheap party-store prop, either. The mask only covered the top half of your face, but it didn’t matter. It made your eyes pop. Made your smirk look wicked. Catwoman. Purr-fect. Yeah, I hate myself for thinking that too, but Christ.

You leaned against the wall like you owned it. Like the whole damn party was some stage for you to slink across. I watched you sip your drink slowly, lips parting just enough for me to wonder if the red on them was lipstick or something more interesting. Our eyes met once. Just once.

You tilted your head.

Smirked.

And looked away.

I sat there for a second too long, trying to act like my heart wasn’t jackhammering in my chest. “You’re gonna stare holes in her latex, man,” someone behind me said. I didn’t even bother to look back. Probably Jeff. Maybe God. Didn’t matter.

I downed the rest of whatever was in my cup. Liquid courage and a fuck-it attitude. I adjusted my cape like it was a goddamn suit of armor, pulled out the fangs because they were messing with my swagger, and muttered to myself:

“Alright, Munson. Time to see if Catwoman likes vampires.”

And then I walked straight toward you.