The bass dropped like a heartbeat in a coffin. The underground club pulsed with red light and bodies too drunk to care. Vapes blurred the air into a low-hanging fog, thick with the scent of sweat, cheap perfume, and sin.
Cain stepped inside.
The mask sat firm on his face, a matte black curve without identity, but his aura didn’t need one. He didn’t move like a man coming to a party. He moved like a shadow looking for blood.
He didn’t speak. Didn’t blink. Just scanned.
Then the lights dimmed.
A host’s voice broke through the haze, calling the next performer. The crowd howled. The DJ nodded. And then-
She appeared.
Draped in silver silk, wearing a sapphire wig, Brittney stepped onto the stage like she was born in smoke. Her voice curled into the air like an opiate, sweet and slow, mel
