Comhroinn Fuaime

The music throbbed through the club's walls like a second pulse, but the man in the corner booth wasn't listening. His fingers twitched around his drink, eyes darting to the shadows where the strobe lights didn’t reach—until she emerged from them, a slip of a thing in black lace and wicked intent. …

The music throbbed through the club's walls like a second pulse, but the man in the corner booth wasn't listening. His fingers twitched around his drink, eyes darting to the shadows where the strobe lights didn’t reach—until she emerged from them, a slip of a thing in black lace and wicked intent. "You smell guilty," she murmured, sliding onto the bench beside him, her knee brushing his thigh with deliberate lightness. The scent of bubblegum and something sharper—alcohol stolen from someone else