Chapter Five.
Hot.
Klein tugged at his collar, but the air only clung tighter to his skin, sticky and suffocating. A heat that didn't belong here pulsed beneath his clothes, spreading like fire in his veins.
He reached for his glass again, hoping the ice had melted enough to give him something close to water. It didn't help. Each sip seemed to vanish before it touched his throat, leaving behind nothing but the faint trace of sweetness that only sharpened his thirst.
The counter beside him was empty now—Lockhart had drifted away, serving another guest with that same polite, gloved efficiency. Klein watched the bartender's silhouette blur and duplicate, as if two men were working side by side. He blinked hard, rubbed his eyes, but the world refused to steady itself.
Fuzzy.
Lightheaded.
He pressed a palm to his temple, steadying himself against the bar stool. His body wanted to slump, but his thoughts—surprisingly—remained sharp. Functional. Like his mind had stayed behind while his flesh stumbled several steps ahead.
"Bathroom," he muttered under his breath. He needed cold water. A splash to the face. Something to anchor him.
Sliding off the stool, Klein made for the corridor at the side of the bar. At least, he thought it was the corridor. His vision wavered, doubling doorways, painting two glowing exit signs where there should only have been one.
The bass of the music pounded harder in his ears, warping into a rhythm too steady, too deliberate. Every thud of the beat seemed to nudge him off balance, his feet dragging him somewhere unfamiliar.
He should've reached the restroom by now. Instead, the hallway bent wrong, the walls lengthening, stretching like a carnival mirror. His head swam, his stomach turned, but his mind whispered warnings, piecing it together.
This wasn't just alcohol.
Something was working through his blood.
And the worst part—he could feel his body responding, betraying him
Klein pressed his shoulder to the wall, trying to follow the blurred signs that promised a restroom. His steps dragged, uneven, each one heavier than the last.
Too hot. Too dizzy. His skin prickled as though every nerve was being pulled taut. His thoughts stayed clear, but his body… his body was unraveling.
There—the door. Just ahead, tucked past a flickering light. He forced his way toward it, step by stumbling step, sweat sliding down his temple, shirt collar tugged open with trembling fingers. The itch beneath his skin worsened—scratching, gnawing, clawing for relief.
He pushed through the door.
Cool silence.
The sudden absence of music made his ears ring. No chatter, no clinking glasses—just the hollow hum of the fluorescent light above. The air smelled faintly of dust and old varnish, not disinfectant or soap.
It wasn't the bathroom.
It was an empty hallway.
Narrow. Dim. Quiet.
The hallway stretched before him, dim, glowing faintly with fractured light from the stained-glass ceiling far behind. His vision swam, doubling shadows, smearing outlines—until one figure, at the end of the corridor, sharpened in startling clarity.
A young man.
Black eyes, dark as ink spilled across a page. Black curls framed his face, loose and soft, falling against a broad forehead and a thin, pale face. A single crystal monocle rested over his right eye, catching the faint light in a glimmer that seemed too deliberate.
Klein's breath caught.
Even through the fog pressing in on him, some instinct screamed at the sight—warning, reverence, danger, all tangled into one.
The young man stood perfectly still, as though waiting. Watching.
Klein blinked hard, hoping the vision would blur away like the rest, but it didn't. He was still there, sharp and undeniable, the monocle gleaming faintly like an unblinking eye.
His throat tightened. He wanted to turn back, wanted to run, but his feet kept carrying him forward—drawn, as if the heat and haze in his veins had found their source.
The young man tilted his head slightly, the crystal monocle catching the faint light like a cold star. There was no urgency in his movement, only quiet curiosity—an almost playful detachment, as though he were watching a moth flounder too close to the flame.
Klein's pulse hammered in his ears. Every instinct screamed danger, but his body betrayed him, tingling, heavy, unsteady.
"Hmm," the young man murmured, voice low and polite, carrying the kind of calm that only made the wrongness sharper. "Are you feeling alright?"
Klein clenched his jaw, forcing his mind to cut through the haze. He had to answer—had to stay normal, sober.
"I-I need to go to the bathroom," he stammered, words slurring despite his best effort. His legs moved, but sluggishly, betraying his intent. He lurched forward, heat rushing through his veins, his vision doubling again—
And stumbled.
But instead of hitting the floor, he felt an arm catch him. Smooth, unhurried, as though the fall had been anticipated. The young man's grip was steady, refined, not forceful but inescapable.
Klein sucked in a shaky breath, chest heaving, the taste of alcohol—or something heavier—lingering on his tongue. Every exhale came rough, uneven, almost intimate in the closeness. His skin tingled where he'd been caught, the touch far too composed for the situation, like a predator gently keeping its prey from collapsing too soon.
The young man steadied Klein with an ease that was almost insulting, as if holding up half-collapsing strangers was routine. His black eyes glinted with something unreadable—too amused, too sharp.
"My, my," he said softly, tone dipped in false concern. "You look as though the room is spinning faster than the music. Did you drink too much, or… not enough?"
Klein forced his legs to straighten, his pride sparring with the fog in his head. "I—I just need the bathroom." His voice was breathless, ragged, like it was dragged out of him rather than spoken.
"Ah, the bathroom." The young man tilted his head, lips curving as if Klein had just told a delightful joke. "The eternal refuge of every drunk and every liar. Which one are you, I wonder?"
Klein's chest tightened. He tried to move again, but the man's arm stayed firm—never rough, never demanding, just there. A touch so casual it made refusal impossible.
"You should be careful," the young man went on, his words smooth, coaxing, laced with a faint mockery. "Places like this… they swallow people whole. Wouldn't want you to trip and disappear, would we?"
His polite smile didn't reach his eyes. Klein, dizzy and overheated, felt the weight of that gaze more than the support keeping him upright. He was prey—and the predator holding him was in no rush to strike.
That was when Klein realized something was terribly, terribly wrong.
The warmth in his chest had spread, seeping into every nerve, every breath. His skin felt too tight, hypersensitive, as though the air itself was brushing against him. When the young man's gloved hand shifted against his arm, the contact sent a jolt straight through his body.
Klein gasped—sharp, involuntary—before he could smother it into silence. The sound that escaped him was far too close to a moan. His hand shot up to his mouth, eyes wide, horror slicing through the haze.
No. No, not here. Not like this.
"Oh?" The young man tilted his head, curiosity gleaming in his black eyes. "Now that… was interesting." His voice lowered, silken and edged with delight. "Embarrassed, are we?"
Klein's pulse thundered in his ears. He wanted to shout for help, but the words tangled in his throat, drowned by the heat coursing through him. Even trying to move forward was a trial—his legs unsteady, every brush of fabric against his skin feeding the fire.
The man's smile sharpened, equal parts intrigue and cruelty, as though he'd just found a fascinating new toy.
"Careful," he murmured, leaning closer, his tone mock-gentle. "If you react like that to a touch, someone might take it the wrong way."