Erebus pulsed. The bass thudded against the floor like the heartbeat of a giant. Smoke curled through the air—a blend of cigarettes, cheap incense, and something older: an insatiable hunger.
Up on the upper balcony, Atticus sat alone.
His white hair spilled over broad shoulders. His eyes—glowing crimson—swept across the dance floor without focus. Yet everyone knew he was choosing.
And tonight, as on so many nights before, they weighed the risk of approaching him.
Because whoever touched him… vanished. A steep price for a pleasure their bodies craved.
Then, from the shadows beside the bar, a woman stepped forward.
Her dark blue dress was torn at the left thigh, revealing skin still slick with sweat from dancing. Her makeup had smudged—black eyeliner streaked like tears—but her lips remained red, wet, inviting. She didn't glance at the crowd. Her eyes locked onto one figure alone: Atticus.
Her steps were slow. Deliberate. Every sway of her hips was an invitation. Every brush of her fingers against her own neck, a signal. She knew exactly what she was doing. She knew the risk. And still, she walked on.
When she reached the foot of the balcony stairs, she stopped.
Then, slowly, she knelt.
Not out of fear. Not out of weakness. But because she wanted Atticus to see her from above—as a king beholds an offering.
She looked up. Her eyes narrowed, her lips curved into the faintest smile. Her breath came deep, her chest rising and falling slowly—as if holding back something desperate to burst free.
"I know who you are," she said, her voice hoarse yet brimming with certainty.
Atticus finally turned. Gradually. Like a predator catching the scent of fresh blood in the air.
He gave no reply. No smile. But his body responded—his neck muscles tensed, his breath deepened just slightly.
The woman swallowed. Then, with controlled precision, she began to crawl up the stairs. One step. Two. Barefoot, her black-painted nails scraped against the wood. Her hands touched each step as if it were an altar. Her body leaned forward—spine arched, hips lifted slightly, her dress slipping off her right shoulder.
When she reached the top, she didn't stand.
She kept crawling—slowly, sensually—until she stopped right before Atticus's feet. She looked up, her eyes defiant, though her breath trembled. She bit her lower lip—gently, long enough for Atticus to see the imprint of her teeth.
"You don't need to speak," she whispered, her voice low, almost a sigh. "I know you don't care who I am. But I know… you need this."
She reached out, brushing the tip of his black leather shoe—then slowly trailed her fingers up his calf, along his thigh, halting just at his groin.
"And I… want to feel you. Just once. Let me turn to dust. Let me vanish. I don't care."
Atticus stared at her for a long moment. His eyes burned—not with wild lust, but with cold observation, like a scientist examining his final subject before the last experiment.
Then, wordlessly, he extended his hand.
His fingers seized her chin—rough, cold, commanding. He forced her to meet his gaze. But the woman didn't look away. She held his stare—her eyes gleaming, her breath heavy, her body trembling not with fear, but with anticipation.
Atticus laughed—short, bitter. In one swift motion, he yanked her to her feet—not gently, but with absolute certainty. His hand locked around her waist, pulling her body flush against his chest. Their breaths collided. His eyes roamed her face—from her raised brow to her still-damp lips, down to the frantic pulse in her throat.
"You're confident," he murmured, his voice low, like thunder rumbling from beneath the earth. "But you don't know what you're asking for."
The woman smiled—a small, challenging curve of her lips. "I do. And I still choose you."
Atticus held her gaze one second longer. Then, without warning, he lifted her—one arm under her back, the other beneath her thigh—and carried her into the shadows of the balcony.
Behind them, the music swelled again. People resumed dancing. Not a single head turned. Not a single soul remembered.
Because in Erebus, those who came to Atticus… never returned as human.
And that night, in the darkest room on the top floor, the ritual began.