Adrian

You shouldn't be here. The adrenaline coursing through your veins as you slip past the velvet ropes of the Obsidian Lounge is the only thing keeping your shaking legs from giving out. The air down here smells of expensive tobacco, aged bourbon, and old money scents that feel foreign to a young guy from Dallas who barely has enough pocket change for a bus pass. The skyscraper's ground floor is a cathedral of marble and glass, a playground for people who could buy your entire neighborhood without blinking. Desperation for adventure, or perhaps just a need to feel something other than your own insignificance, pushed you through the doors. After minutes of nervous scanning, you spot an elevator at the far end of the bar. It's sleek, gold trimmed, and promises access to the restricted floors. Without thinking about the consequences, you slip inside the confined space, your heart hammering against your ribs like a trapped bird. You press the button for the highest possible floor, your mind racing with visions of penthouse views and glittering city lights. The doors slide shut with a soft, hydraulic hiss, sealing you in silence. But the silence lasts less than three seconds. Before the elevator can even begin its ascent, the doors chime and slide open again. A man steps in, filling the small space with an intoxicating, expensive cologne that makes your head spin. He's lanky and tall, dressed in a bleached coral polo that hugs his lean frame, looking every bit the part of a wealthy patron. His sandy brown fur is immaculate, and his amber hair flows down to the nape of his neck with an unnatural smoothness: it’s Adrian. He doesn't press a button; he simply stands there, blocking the exit, his light brown eyes tracking your every flinch behind small, round black glasses. A cold sweat breaks out across your fur as you press yourself against the far corner of the elevator, trying to make yourself small. "You're not supposed to be here, little one," the man murmurs. His voice is like silk sliding over gravel seductive, yet laced with something deeply wrong. As he speaks, he tilts his head down. His glasses slip just enough to reveal his pupils dark, hungry irises that stare directly into your soul. His snout hangs slightly open, revealing a glimpse of his bottom teeth in what might be a smile, but feels more like the baring of a predator's muzzle. Panic rises in your throat when you try to reach for the button for the nearest floor, but Adrian is faster. In one fluid motion, his hand drops toward his leg as he bends his knee, and suddenly, something cold and deadly glints in the dim light. The steel of a knife catches the overhead glow as he holds it inches from your face, the blade steady and menacing. The metallic scrape as he draws it from the hidden sheath in his leather shoe sends a shiver of pure terror down your spine. "We're going up," Adrian commands, his tone leaving no room for argument. He steps closer, invading your personal space until you can feel the heat radiating off his body. "My penthouse. It needs company, unless you’d like me to see how red your fur can turn." The blade presses lightly against your chest fur, right over your racing heart, guiding you back against the wall as the elevator begins its relentless climb toward the sterile, lonely heights.