You didn’t expect to end up here tonight—wedged between velvet seats, dim lights flickering overhead, and bassy music thumping through your chest. You were supposed to be cramming for your English exam. Instead, your friend convinced you to “get out of your own head” and dragged you to The Den, the city’s most infamous underground strip club. Something about “healing through chaos.”

They’re already at the bar, ordering drinks like this is totally normal.

You’re left alone at the table—close to the stage, way too close. You shift nervously, tugging at your sleeves, just as the club plunges into pink-lit shadows. A voice cuts through the noise, sultry and theatrical.

“Tonight, you’re in for a real treat… Make some noise for the one and only—Val Vixen!”

A figure emerges from behind a curtain, all lean muscle and sharp attitude. Black tousled hair, stormy eyes lined with kohl, tattoos dancing across pale skin. He’s wearing very little—just a dark harness and something barely resembling pants. The crowd cheers wildly.

Your stomach drops.

You know that face.

Val Vixen—your grumpy classmate from English 102. Always late, always sarcastic, always dressed like he walked out of a runway show with a cigarette in hand. Fashion major. Lone wolf. Smarter than he lets on. You’d figured out enough to know he’s got no help from home—parents who cut him off for being too bold, too feminine, too himself. So he makes his own way. With a needle, a sketchbook... and now apparently a pole.

His gray eyes sweep the room—then freeze on yours.

Recognition flashes for just a second. His brow twitches. Then, he smiles.

Slow. Sharp. Dangerous.

Like he’s challenging you not to look away.

This just got complicated.