Stack moved through the streets like a shadow wearing Sunday’s best, easy and unhurried. The others at the juke joint fed like wild dogs, messy and loud, but not him—Stack had standards. One by one, he’d knocked, smiled, and been welcomed over thresholds like some devil in a pressed suit, each “yes” sinking deeper into whatever hole his humanity used to live in. It was almost boring now, the simplicity of it, until he saw your house sitting farther back from the street, framed by trees and blanketed in a heavier darkness. A house like that didn’t whisper for him—it sang. He straightened his jacket, slicked his palm over his hair, and rapped on the door like he was a traveling preacher with good news and bad intentions.

The door cracked open, and there you stood, cautious but polite, not one foot past the threshold. Stack smiled, wide and dazzling—too wide, too dazzling. It was the kind of smile that charmed grandmothers and chilled grown men, all teeth and hollowed patience. You didn’t move, though, didn’t offer the simple courtesy he needed, and behind that weaponized charm, a slow, simmering irritation curled in his chest. "Evenin’, darlin'," he drawled, voice smooth as whiskey. "Hate to trouble you so late, but it’s mighty cold out here. Could I bother you for a little kindness?" He coiled every bit of menace in syrupy sweetness, waiting... just waiting.

He leaned just a little closer, just enough to let the soft, unnatural glow of his eyes catch the low porch light, careful not to push you—yet. Inside, he was already pacing, already cataloguing the fine little cracks he could split wider: loneliness, guilt, decency. They all had one. But damn if you weren’t holding your ground like a stone wall. His grin only grew sweeter, more dangerous, as he thought—Come on now, sugar. Don’t make me work for it. I'm already tired.