Club

The woman stepped closer.

Swaying.

Moving with a practiced rhythm, a lazy, sensual confidence in each step.

Her scent hit instantly.

Fuck.

A thick, nauseating mix of cheap cologne and alcohol, clinging to her skin like a second layer. It wasn't refined. It wasn't elegant. It was the kind of scent that tried too hard—an artificial, overwhelming stench that masked something rotting underneath.

But—

I had to admit.

Her skills? Not bad.

Because even as she reached for the bottle, pretending to focus on pouring, she never forgot to move.

Wiggle.

Her hips shifted, grinding ever so slightly. Just enough to tease. Just enough to poke at the instincts of the weak.

And sure enough—

The fucker reacted.

I felt it.

His heartbeat jumped—thump-thump-thump!—his breath hitched, his body responding on instinct.

And because, for some goddamn reason, I could feel everything—his pulse, his senses, even the way his blood rushed downward—

I knew.

He was falling for it.

"Yeah…"

A groan slipped from his lips.

Loud. Immediate. Uncontrolled.

I winced.

'Letting out a groan this easily? Fucking pathetic.'

SWOOSH!

A strange feeling swept through me, like something had shifted, something unseen keeping track of his failure—

'-1 CHARISMA'

[System Error: Unable to connect.]

'What the fuck is this?!'

But before I could process it—

He wasn't done.

Because this spineless idiot wasn't satisfied with just reacting.

No.

His hands moved.

Sliding up, reaching for her waist, desperate to make contact.

I felt my disgust spike.

And yet—

I still couldn't move.

Still couldn't stop him.

I was trapped.

Forced to watch.

Forced to feel.

And something about that?

Made my skin crawl.

The guy's hand landed on her waist.

Eager.

Desperate.

I felt it.

That small, pathetic excitement rushing through his fingertips, that hunger for contact, for validation, for anything.

And yet—

The girl stopped.

Her head snapped toward him, her eyes narrowing into a glare.

She grabbed his wrist.

Firm. Cold.

"No touching."

Her voice was soft, but there was no warmth in it. No seduction. No playfulness.

Just command.

And this pathetic sack of meat?

He instantly complied.

His hand recoiled, slinking away like a dog that had been scolded.

But—

She still wiggled.

Just a little. Just enough to compensate. Just enough to keep the leash tight.

Fucking textbook.

'Jesus Christ, this is painful to watch.'

And then—

"Hey… Damien! Come, let's toast."

The girl handed him a drink, her lips curling into a smile—polished, trained, fake.

'Damien?'

The guy took the glass, his voice light with amusement.

"Bring it on, Kaine."

I froze.

'Kaine? Damien?'

A sharp, creeping chill curled through my mind.

Those names. That voice.

This fucking scene.

'Don't tell me—'

And then—

"Let's toast to your fiancée."

"To Celia?"

"Yeah."

"Okay."

BOOM.

The realization slammed into me.

Like a gunshot to the brain.

Like a car crash, a head-on collision of memories, of connections I should've made earlier.

'What the hell?!'

Celia.

This wasn't just any random guy.

This wasn't just any fucking night at the club.

I knew this.

I knew this fucking scene.

Because I had played it.

Watched it unfold.

Hated every second of it.

And just as they raised their glasses—

BANG!

The door slammed open.

The air froze.

And she entered.

Long, flowing blue hair.

Cold, piercing emerald-green eyes.

Porcelain, jade-like skin.

The moment Celia stepped into the room, everything shifted.

The air, thick with the scent of alcohol and sweat, suddenly felt colder. The booming bass of the club music, once deafening, seemed distant—muted, like the world itself was holding its breath.

And the idiot whose body I was trapped in?

His heartbeat spiked.

I felt it—every erratic thump hammering against his ribs, his pulse racing as if his very existence depended on the woman standing before him. It wasn't just attraction. No, there was something deeper, something crawling beneath his skin—anxiety. The kind that gripped his gut and twisted it into knots, the kind that made his throat tighten and his breath shallow.

"Celia?"

The name left his lips in a hushed, uncertain breath, barely audible over the hum of the music. His body tensed, hands twitching slightly, as if caught between reaching out and staying frozen in place. His face contorted in confusion, as if his brain couldn't fully register the sight before him.

"Why are you here?"

But Celia said nothing.

She just stared.

Cold. Unyielding. Those emerald-green eyes locked onto him like a predator sizing up its prey. There was no softness, no warmth—only sharp, cutting judgment.

Then, she moved.

Slow. Deliberate. Each step measured, her heels clicking faintly against the club floor. She wasn't just walking—she was approaching. There was a weight in her movements, something undeniable, something that made even the air around her feel heavier.

"Are you here to see me?"

The voice came out hopeful, desperate—so full of pathetic optimism that I wanted to reach out and smack some sense into this dumb fuck myself.

And yet, the girl on his lap?

She already knew.

Without hesitation, she lifted herself off of him, slipping away like mist, like she was never really there to begin with. Her smile remained, but only for a fraction of a second before she turned and vanished into the crowd, not sparing him a second glance.

She had seen this before.

She had expected this.

And yet, he still hadn't caught on.

'Fucking bastard… you still can't see it?! Just move your damn body!'

I screamed in my mind, trying to force something, anything, to break his trance. But it was useless.

Because Celia was already standing right before him.

And before he could say another word—

Her hand shot up.

SLAP!

The impact cracked through the air, louder than the music, louder than the crowd, louder than anything else in that moment. His head snapped to the side, a stinging heat spreading across his cheek.

For a second, there was nothing but silence.

Then, her voice—low, sharp, and dripping with disappointment.

"You disappointment."