My footsteps rang hollow against the hardwood stage, the sound sharp and unforgiving in the emptiness. At the centre sat a lone stool beneath a spotlight, its stark beam slicing through the darkness. Even during the day, Club Dusk remained dark, dank, and dreary. Located on the south side of the city, across the river—known to the locals as the Underworld of Averon—it was a place of grit-stained cobblestones and the muffled murmurs of illicit dealings. The absence of windows only amplified its gloom, a feature that felt less like a design flaw and more like a deliberate statement.

This old, converted theatre, once known as the Dusk Theatre, was unique for being built underground. In its heyday, it was infamous for hosting burlesque shows and provocative plays that dared to offend the fragile sensibilities of the day. Rebels whispered their conspiracies here, while society’s outcasts danced in the flickering light of its chandeliers. The Dusk welcomed people of all orientations, offering a rare sanctuary where judgment had no place.

Now, that sanctuary had evolved into something darker, wilder, and undeniably alluring. The club pulsed with its own peculiar lifeblood, feeding off the chaos of its patrons and echoing the history of the Underworld itself.

Stepping through its doors was like descending into another world—a den of indulgence and seduction where restraint withered, and primal instincts thrived. The mundane, grey lives left behind at the surface were nothing more than shadowy echoes, swallowed by the pulsing, dark heart of Dusk. Here, masks weren’t just removed; they were shattered, replaced with faces painted in desire and shadows.

They could be whoever they wanted, do whatever they desired, and revel in their most audacious fantasies without fear of judgment. Many a sin I have seen, and many I will continue to see... and take part in.

Club Dusk wasn’t just a nightclub. It was liberation. It was carnage. It was home.

This has always been a vampire’s domain—a carefully curated illusion where humans and their desperate little fantasies play into our hands. They walk in thinking they’re guests, but really, they’re the feast. Blood is the price of entry, and for most, it’s a bargain.

I’ve seen it all—the ecstasy in their eyes when they let the darkness claim them. They think they’re the ones in control. It’s laughable, really. But who am I to judge? I’ve succumbed to it myself more times than I care to count, drunk on the high of their fleeting, desperate lives. Maybe I’m no better than they are.

I sat down on the lone stool, the bright light encapsulating me in a warm glow. The rest of the club was shrouded in darkness, leaving me alone—a welcome silence and a cold reminder. Yes, I am brooding, a classic cliché. Why shouldn’t I be? Am I not the monster that haunts people’s dreams? The one mothers warn their babes about? I smirked as I tuned my guitar, my fingers gliding up its neck. It was smooth under my touch, comfortably familiar. I hadn’t picked up this particular guitar in over twenty years, but I dust it off every now and then. Tonight, it called to me from its case, begging to be played.

After tuning it to my satisfaction, I did a test strum. Deep. Full. And when I pressed my pick to the strings, it rang out with a hollow ache. A shiver of pleasure ran through me at the sweet sound, and I began to play, letting the melody unfurl.

I let my fingers glide over the strings as the song echoed across the emptiness of the club. It was haunting and unresolved. It always left me wanting, like a puzzle missing its last damn piece. A song I could never finish, no matter how hard I tried. I wrote it while holed up in my father’s old mansion, forgotten by everyone who lived there, including him. Hours turned into days as I tried to wrangle the notes into submission, my stubbornness outlasting any sense of reason. My sister would hover at the edges of my exile, sometimes listening, sometimes leaving without a word. She never interrupted; at least she had the sense to know better. I strummed more passionately this time, the anger pouring through my fingers. The climax of the song building, just on the verge of release—right before I could strum the final, cursed chord that always led nowhere. And then, a voice broke through the quiet, slicing the tension in half.

“A wee bit broody today, aren’t we, Daz?”

I sighed, letting my arm fall over the guitar. Squinting into the shadows, my eyes shifted until they found Bastian—owner, bartender, DJ of the club—smirking as he strolled into view, two kegs slung under each arm. He set them down behind the bar and made his way over to the stage, his long golden-blonde hair tied back in its usual low ponytail.

Despite his pirate-like appearance, he’d been an innkeeper in his human life, which explained the strength in his barrel-hauling arms. At six foot two, he wore a white fitted button-down with the sleeves rolled up to his forearms. The snug fabric hinted at his strength. Dark jeans and a single silver hoop in his left ear completed his roguish air, giving him the look of someone who could charm anyone—or break them in half.

As he got closer, I could feel his gaze on me, reading the scowl on my face.

“What’re you growling for?” he asked, sitting on the edge of the stage and turning toward me.

“Couldn’t resist ruining my moment, could you?” I said bitterly.

Bastian shrugged, his grin widening. “Ruining? I thought I was helping. You looked like you were about to combust.”

I was getting irritated. “I thought maybe I might get it this time.” I dragged a hand through my thick, jet-black curls, the strands falling back into their usual wild chaos as I tried to shake off my frustration.

Bastian raised an eyebrow, smirking. “That’s what you always say. Maybe you’re just not meant to finish the song. Maybe it’s cursed.”

His words struck a nerve, as they always did. No—I refused to believe that. This song meant something to me. I could feel it in my bones. I stared at him, biting back a retort.

“Maybe,” I muttered, brushing it off with a sniff.

Bastian leaned back, his smirk softening into something annoyingly close to concern.

“You’ve had two minutes of freedom, Darien. Maybe instead of sulking onstage, you could... I don’t know... celebrate? Or does brooding count as a party for you?”

I looked up from the guitar, meeting his dark blue eyes. My enhanced sight caught the faint gold flecks shimmering within them—a small clue to his vampire lineage, though he was veilbound. A chuckle slipped from me, the tension in my shoulders easing slightly. 

“It was a long time coming, Bast,” I admitted, running my thumb over the guitar strings—a little habit I’d picked up to calm my anger. “It still feels surreal, like the fight hasn’t faded from my mind. If Valda hadn’t—”

“Valda.” Bastian interrupted, his voice sharp enough to cut. He scoffed, bitterness dripping from the sound. “I’ll never understand the hold she has on your father.”

The name always stirred something bitter in me. My jaw tightened as memories flooded back. My twin sister. His favourite. Born minutes before me, but it might as well have been years in his eyes. Valda was everything he wanted— a polished protégé who basked in his approval and shouldered the weight of his ambitions. Meanwhile, I lingered in the shadows, an afterthought.

Shaking off the bitterness, I forced a smirk. “The same stranglehold she has over you and this establishment,” I said, gesturing around the dark, empty space. “She never lets you forget that she helped finance the place.”

Bastian’s expression darkened, his eyes darting to the shadows at the back of the club, toward the Velvet Rooms. “Yeah,” he muttered, the words weighed down with disdain. “The witch made me promise she could do whatever the hell she wanted here. So far, I haven’t regretted it, but I can’t shake the feeling I will someday.”

I leaned back, letting the guitar rest against my chest. “Bast, she’s harmless, really. Queen of Dusk—it’s just her latest distraction. A way to kill time until she takes the Elder title,” I said, shrugging it off.

“It won’t be a harmless distraction when you realise she’s rehearsing for world domination.”

That pulled a genuine laugh out of me. The idea was absurd. My sister wasn’t vying for power beyond our kind—at least, not yet. She was being groomed to take over as Elder for our clan, Sânge Varcolac—the Blood Wolf—a title that carried more responsibility than glory.

“She’s not rehearsing for anything beyond our clan,” I said with a shrug. “And believe me, I don’t envy her. Elder might sound grand, but it’s a headache wrapped in centuries of tradition.”

Bastian gave me a long, hard look, then let out a dry, mocking chuckle. “Just wait and see. I’m not crazy. That witch is coming for us all…”

His words hung in the air, heavy with foreboding, but I refused to dwell on them. I shook my head, a smile tugging at the corner of my mouth. “You’re something, Bast,” was all I could muster in reply.

He stood, brushing his hands against his jeans as if wiping off invisible dust. “Yeah, well, something is better than nothing,” he said with a shrug. “When can I expect the rest of the pack to show up?”

My band, Howl by Night, loved their wolf-themed puns—because of course, we were a strange pack in more ways than one. A pack of misfits with parent issues, rebellion in our veins, and music as our only tether to sanity.

“In an hour or so, for sound check. Who else is playing tonight?”

Bastian flipped me off as he walked away, his voice echoing faintly over his shoulder. “Surprise yourself.”

I smirked. He’s lucky I like his arrogant ass.