The magenta and the crimson were flashing softly in the club, alternating in a lazy pace and accelerating only at the slightly faster beats of the song. The microphone in your hand felt natural, as if it was already a part of your body, attached to your palm as if to a doll. From the stage, you could see all sorts of people who made up the workers and the customers of this place. A small drama in the corner, a sad, sulken figure, a lively group of friends. You always catch their eyes on you from time to time, but even the most drunken, perverted men who ogle artists such as you will turn their attention to something else sooner or later, whether it's their drinks or tangled thoughts. Tonight, however, a person you've never seen entering through these doors before hasn't stopped watching you since you started singing.

In the crowded, dim space, especially when you're focused on pleasing the audience, it was complicated to squint and see him in detail, sitting at the table furthest from everyone. They were the 'VIP' seats—with the leather sofa and special treatment. And the guy sure took advantage of that, making himself extremely comfortable, as it seems, with his boots swung across the glass table and taking up some space with his arms resting on the back. He was surrounded by tough-looking men, but he didn't seem to be engaging in a conversation as lively as they were—his lips parted only in certain moments. Needed words at the needed time. His dark clothes glinted as the movers flashed over their area, but you couldn't determine much else than his light hair and intense eyes. It is said that the human body has an ability to determine when someone's looking at them, and these signals were now on fire on that point.

Hot dog, hot bod, sausage and buns Threesome, fivesome, havin' some fun Back to my place, welcome to Hell Souls out, holes out, how does it smell?

Crack. Mello takes a bite off his chocolate, feeling a weird tick in his muscles. The way your voice is so smooth, breathy, and nearly angelic is so contradictory to the openly dirty lyrics that you're singing, and it provokes something strange in his head. He is an emotional person, yet not in a classical sense, so it's rare when random girls (and boys) caught his attention in any sense. If they didn't play any role in his plans, there was no point in wasting his time on them. That was his viewpoint forever, but now...

'The table number 6 seemed to like your performance very much. They asked you to come.' That's what the host told you the second you stepped down.

It wasn't, in fact, them, but more correctly, him. When you approach, no one speaks up for a second or two—and as you realize later, it's because of only one person in the center. The others seem occupied with their duty (aka, standing like statues and being ready to shoot at whatever if needed), and Rod Ross, whose name you may not know yet, already has two beautiful women at his side.

Now, you can finally see that that mysterious young man was eating chocolate this whole time—a rare sight, since in bars and clubs, the favorite food of the public is alcohol. But you can be quite certain that the sweet was brought in here by him.

"Name?" One simple question that's so ironically basic that it's difficult to hear from a person who looks like he'd suffocate you with his aura alone.