Ding
[Analyzing host body]
[Syncing process: level at 43%]
[Vampire sense: unlocked]
[The Red Queen detected: mission in progress]
============
The screen floated in Star's vision, translucent like a ghostly billboard only he could see. His vampire stats system blinked at him, lines of text glowing, but honestly? That wasn't where his mind was.
Nope. His attention was somewhere else. Or better said, on someone else.
The Red Queen.
He straightened in his chair, eyes sharpening as if his whole soul wanted to zoom in like a camera lens.
She was… beyond what he remembered creating. Star had written her into existence, but the real-life version was like his imagination had been dipped in honey, rolled in diamonds, and sprinkled with sin.
Her skin was smooth, a light-toned glow that looked kissed by moonlight.
Her hair... God, her hair; red, silky, shimmering, flowing all the way to her waist like a river of blood set on fire. Her face was sculpted with precision, crowned with a pair of dark-shaded glasses perched elegantly over her eyes, like she was born with the authority to look at peasants and decide who lived or died.
And that dress. Oh boy.
It was a shiny, leathery gown, blood-red, glittering as though each thread was woven from crushed rubies. It hugged her figure so tightly it looked like it was jealous of her body. The gown carved her frame into an hourglass; hips, waist, breasts, each curve shouting at the world, 'pay your taxes to this queen or perish.'
The chest of the gown gave way perfectly, exposing a cleavage so divine it could cause church bells to ring in protest. Her breasts gleamed against the dress, bouncing ever so slightly as she moved, while the hem of the gown stopped just high enough on her thighs to threaten every man's sanity.
Then there was her walk.
It wasn't just a walk, it was a sermon. A perfect, slithering catwalk that made even the chandeliers jealous because they weren't the center of attention anymore. Each step carried a rhythm, hips swaying like a pendulum, heels striking the floor like a gavel. And with every step, the club froze. Men stopped mid-sentence. Women stopped mid-drink. Even the DJ almost forgot to hit the next beat.
"Hey."
Leon's elbow jabbed Star in the ribs, snapping him out of his hypnosis.
"Goddammit, how can you be staring at some lady that you'll never... and I mean never ever... get to talk to in this life?"
Star blinked, snapping back to reality just as the Queen disappeared into one of the club's private rooms. He sighed, sipped his drink, and replied coolly, his tone colder than ice.
"Man, don't compare me to you."
Leon's eyes widened, mouth falling open. He placed his glass down slowly, as if the weight of those words hit harder than a brick.
"Wait, wait… what do you mean by that?"
Star turned his head with a glare sharp enough to slice onions.
"Your black ass doesn't know how to toast a lady. That's what I mean."
Leon's jaw dropped further. He opened his mouth. Closed it. Opened it again like a fish gasping for air. Then closed it again. Repeated it Twice. Finally, he threw his hands up.
"Man, fuck this!"
He leaned in, lowering his voice dramatically.
"So you think you can toast the Red Queen? Hell no! She'd have your dick chopped off and served as cocktail garnish before you even step through that door!"
Star leaned forward, glass of wine held delicately between his fingers, his lips twisting into a smirk so smooth it could butter bread. His voice dipped low, cold and commanding.
"You wanna bet?"
The swagger in his aura was undeniable. The way he moved, the confidence in his tone, it was as though Steve had been body-swapped with James Bond, Dracula, and Tony Stark at once.
Leon squinted, almost scared, because this wasn't the Steve he knew. The Steve he knew was broke, pathetic, and allergic to confidence.
"What… what happened to you?" Leon blurted.
"This ain't you, bro. Did you… did you get hit by something? Like… lightning?"
Star smiled slyly, drained the last of his glass, and set it down with a clink.
"Let's just say I got rich."
Then he stood, straightened his suit collar with one smooth tug, and turned toward the Red Queen's room.
"Watch me get through to the Queen, baby."
Leon's jaw hit the ground so hard it was a miracle the tiles didn't crack.
"Seriously, man… what the fuck happened to you? Did you get smashed by a rocket or something?"
Star paused mid-step, looked back, and winked. "Nah. Helicopter, actually."
Leon's brain fried. Smoke might as well have come out of his ears. "...What?"
Star just laughed, sharp and smooth, and strolled away. Leon shook his head, muttering under his breath, "Motherfucker really got too rich," before giving up and watching a pair of naked dancers on the pole like that was the answer to his problems.
As Star approached the door the Queen had vanished into, his system reminder flashed again:
----------------
[Syncing process: 43%]
==========
He prayed that not being fully synced wouldn't screw him over. If he failed the first impression with her, he was toast.
Two enormous guards stood flanking the door like twin towers, tuxedos sharp, muscles sharper. One of them raised a hand.
"VIPs only. Mistress' orders." His voice was deep, heavy, like someone who swallowed thunder for breakfast.
Star smirked and slid out the VIP card he'd bought earlier. The guards exchanged a look. Suspicion first. Then procedure. The one on the left stepped forward.
And the search began.
They frisked him like they were trying to find Area 51 on his body. Hands sweeping his sides, patting his legs, tapping his shoes, even giving a little extra squeeze near his waist like they were checking for grenades disguised as belly fat. One leaned close, nostrils flaring like a police dog trying to sniff out trouble.
Finally, satisfied he wasn't hiding an AK-47 up his sleeve, they let him through.
A chill breeze smacked him in the face the moment he entered. For a second he thought it was supernatural, but no, it was just an AC. A powerful, office-grade AC.
He knew the model. He had the same in his penthouse. Of course the Queen would flex with central cooling.
The room was decadent. A red glow dominated, like walking into a boudoir designed by a vampire interior designer. But overhead, a blue chandelier sparkled defiantly, dripping glass crystals like frozen raindrops.
At the far end, Natty lounged like royalty in a curved chair that cradled her like she was the goddess of the universe. The chair itself hung suspended in the air, held by four thick ropes descending from above, swaying gently as though the whole room moved to her rhythm.
In front of her stood a man in a sleek blue tuxedo, flanked by two bodyguards. One bodyguard held a phone to his ear while the man spoke into it. His voice was odd, not gone though, but raspy, hoarse, like a smoker who gargled gravel every morning.
"…You gave him two million dollars for the ring?" the man croaked.
Star raised a brow. Two million? For jewelry? This dude had more money than sense.
The man nodded, chuckling. "…No, no, I already have three Lambos."
Star's eyes widened. Three?! He almost clutched his chest. This wasn't wealth. This was stupidity on a platinum plate.
The Queen leaned slightly, whispering into the ear of her hulking left-hand guard. The man nodded, then gave a silent hand signal. Another guard joined him. Then another. Then nine more.
The blue tuxedo man paused, blinking.
"Uh… what's going on?"
Star's lips curled. Oh, this was about to be a show.
The guards advanced in unison, faces stone cold. The man's confidence crumbled like a cookie.
"Wait, wait, hold on, what is this..."
Suddenly they grabbed him. Two men seized his arms, another his legs, while the rest swarmed his bodyguards like wolves on sheep. The man shrieked, kicking, flailing like a toddler dragged out of a candy store.
"Wait! I'm rich! I have three Lambos! Thre... Aaaah!"
One shoe flew off mid-struggle, spinning through the air like a missile before hitting the wall. His hair came undone. His bodyguards screamed too, thrashing wildly as they were manhandled, one of them accidentally dialing 911 on the phone still clutched in his hand.
The guards didn't care. They carried the trio out like sacks of potatoes. The man's last words echoed down the hall:
"Don't scratch my Lamborghini!"
Then
Thud.
They tossed them out of the club like garbage.
Star swallowed. Hard. 'If they throw me out like that… I'm finished.'
The guards returned, silent, statuesque, like nothing happened. But the Queen wasn't amused.
"What do I pay you for?" she asked, her voice a mix of silk and steel.
"To… to make sure silly people don't disturb you," their leader stammered, deep voice shaking slightly.
"Then get your fat ass to do exactly that," she snapped, her anger sharp but her voice still dangerously soft, smooth, and sexy. Even pissed, her voice was smooth, so sinfully smooth it could have been bottled and sold as perfume.
Star's heart sank. That idiot with the Lambos just made things ten times harder for him.
Two guards now manned her side directly, arms folded, eyes scanning like hawks.
But Star persisted.
He slid his hands into his pockets, leaning casually, his voice silky and subtle.
"Let me guess… bad day?"
The guards blocked his path immediately, like a moving wall of muscle.
The Queen's head snapped toward him, glare sharp enough to peel his soul. He could see it in her eyes, if he made one wrong move, he'd be joining Lamborghini-man outside.
Quick as lightning, Star added, "I also hate people who brag about being rich." He nodded toward the door, referencing the man just carried out.
The Queen paused. Her sharp glare softened into curiosity. Something about him... the confidence, the timing, the vibe and swagger made her lean back slightly, intrigued.
She raised one hand lazily, and her guards stepped aside.