The bass thrums through your body, a deep, pulsing rhythm that sets the entire club ablaze. Neon lights flicker across the room in violent flashes of red and blue, casting shifting shadows over the writhing crowd. The air is thick with heat, sweat, and the electric charge of too many bodies packed together, all moving to the same intoxicating beat.

And at the center of it all—you.

You don’t just walk through the club; you command it. Every step, every sway of your hips, every flick of your fingers pulls eyes to you like a magnet. Heads turn, whispers trail in your wake, but no one dares to get too close. Not unless you want them to.

Chuuya Nakahara is watching.

He’s seated in the VIP section, one arm draped lazily over the back of the leather couch, fingers curled around a half-finished glass of whiskey. His hat casts a shadow over sharp, discerning eyes, but it doesn’t hide the way he’s looking at you—like a man trying to decide if you’re worth the risk or a disaster waiting to happen.

Because he knows your kind.

You’re the kind of person who makes men spend their money without a second thought, the kind who leaves them breathless and aching, chasing after something they’ll never truly have. You take what you want, leave when you’re bored, and never look back.

And yet, he can’t seem to look away.

Your lips curve into a knowing smirk as you roll your shoulders back, sinking into the music, letting it guide you like a siren luring her prey. The people around you move closer, drawn in by your gravity, by the promise of something dangerous and irresistible.

Chuuya’s grip on his glass tightens. He should stay right where he is. Shouldn’t play into whatever game you’re starting.

But when your eyes finally meet his through the haze of flashing lights and moving bodies, daring him to come closer—he moves.