Stalker's Game

The club pulsed with life, a thrumming heartbeat of bass and bodies moving in hypnotic rhythm. Strobe lights painted fleeting illusions across the sea of dancers—flashes of skin, glittering eyes, parted lips. The air was thick with the scent of sweat, perfume, and alcohol, a dizzying cocktail that clung to the skin like a lover’s embrace.

I was perched at the bar, the cool rim of my vodka glass resting against my lower lip, when a man—tall, broad-shouldered, and exuding a confidence bordering on arrogance—approached. His tailored black shirt clung to a sculpted torso, muscles shifting beneath fabric with each leisurely step. There was something self-assured in the way he carried himself, something that suggested he was used to getting exactly what he wanted.

His grin was lazy, smug. A predator who believed he had already won his prize.

"May I dance with you, sexy?"

His voice was like whiskey—smooth with an edge of heat, poured over the ice of his arrogance.