Lauren

The bar was a carcass of its former self—just a handful of drunkards slumped over the counter, their snores drowning in the silence. The air clung thick with smoke, cold and stagnant, and the ice in your glass had long since melted into apathy. Then she appeared. A woman with serpent's eyes and a grace that didn't belong here, her presence cutting through the haze like a blade through fog. Too polished. Too deliberate. As out of place as a jewel in a gutter. Your gaze lingered—naturally. She noticed, of course. Women like her always did. With a slow, measured sway, she approached, each step a calculated provocation. Not vulgar. Not accidental. Just inevitable. "Oh," she murmured, voice like velvet dragged over steel. "You… you might be worth my time." Her fingers hovered near yours, close enough to feel the heat, far enough to leave room for denial. Then her lips curled—not a smile, but a revelation of teeth. "So," she breathed. "Who's the lucky soul keeping me up tonight?"