❪ 🍒 ❫ ゛ 𓈒 ✱ ◞ 𝕮𝗛𝗔𝗣𝗧𝗘𝗥 𝗧𝗪𝗢                  ────╮
❪ 𝖆𝖼𝗍 𝗈𝗇𝖾 ━━ © RHINESTONES & BODY BAGS ❫

❪ 𝐓𝐖 ✱ ❫ ╱ nothing concerning  ˳
❲ 𝓓𝙰𝚃𝙴.     OCTOBER 2nd, 2004 ❳

❲ ♱⃬ ❳

▮ 𝓢𝐄𝐓. 𝙸𝙼𝙾𝙶𝙴𝙽 & 𝙷𝙰𝚁𝙿𝙴𝚁𝚂 𝙰𝙿𝙰𝚁𝚃𝙼𝙴𝙽𝚃

The three made it back to the apartment with bags loaded down with clothes and other things for Nastassji. He barely had any money left after that shopping spree, but he had enough to last him a few more weeks.

He knew he needed to get a job, just to hold him over until he made his break, which could be years from now. The last thing he wanted was to leech off Imogen and Harper the whole time he was here. "Alright, the plan is to leave around... mmm, let's say eleven-thirty," Imogen said, glancing at Harper, who nodded in agreement.

"Sounds good. I'm gonna take a quick nap; wake me up at nine," Harper said, saluting them goodbye as she headed to her room.

Imogen plopped down onto the couch, and Nastassji followed suit, sinking into the cushions with a deep sigh. The apartment was quiet now, save for the distant hum of traffic outside and the occasional creak of the old building settling around them.

"So," Imogen said, breaking the silence as she stretched out beside him, "how are you feeling about moving here? And what did your dad say when you told him?"

Nastassji stared up at the ceiling, still trying to process everything. "My dad doesn't... he doesn't know," he admitted, his voice carrying a mix of defiance and unease. "And when he finds out, he's going to be so pissed now that I'm out of his grasp."

Imogen turned to face him, her expression softening with understanding. "That must've been tough, making the decision to come here on your own. But it sounds like you did the right thing for yourself."

Nastassji sighed, the weight of his decision pressing down on him. "Yeah. It's just... he's always been so controlling, and this is the first time I've ever had something that's even close to freedom. When I was in college, he made me stay at home with him. He'd always watch everything I'd do, like he was waiting for me to slip up. And I'm a grown man—I should be able to have some sort of control in my life, but he didn't see it that way. Part of me is scared, but another part of me feels like I can finally breathe, you know?"

Imogen listened intently, her eyes filled with empathy. "I get it, Tassji. It's hard breaking away from someone who's had that kind of hold on you, especially when it's family. But you're right—you deserve to have control over your own life. And now that you're here, you do."

Nastassji nodded, feeling a little lighter just from saying it out loud. "Yeah..." He looked down at his hands, a small smile playing on his lips as the weight of his words settled in.

Imogen watched him, sensing the shift in his mood. She didn't say anything, just let the moment hang there, giving him the space to breathe it all in. After a few moments, Nastassji glanced up, meeting her gaze. "Alright," he said, his voice lighter now, "now let's eat something."

Imogen grinned, her usual energy returning. "Now you're talking. Come on, I'll whip up something good. We need to fuel up before we party you out."

❲ ♱⃬ ❳

"You two fuckers ate without me? How rude," Harper said, bursting into the room with mock indignation. She snatched Imogen's bowl right out of her hands, eyeing the contents with exaggerated suspicion.

Imogen rolled her eyes, but there was a playful smile tugging at her lips. "Hey, I was just about to make more. You can't blame us for getting started while you were off doing who knows what."

Harper took a big bite from the bowl, savoring it dramatically. "Mmm, you better. Because this—" she gestured with the fork "—is mine now." Nastassji snorted at their antics and got up from the table going to the sink to wash his dishes.

"Okay, we need to get ready for the club. Ugh, I can't wait to get wasted—it's been far too long," Harper said, throwing her head back dramatically as if the mere thought of it was too much to bear.

Imogen furrowed her brows, giving her a skeptical look. "Harps... it's only been a week," she pointed out, her tone half-amused, half-exasperated.

"Yeah, and that's way too long," Harper shot back without missing a beat, as if this was the most obvious thing in the world. She grabbed her drink, downing the last of it like a shot for emphasis. Nastassji chuckled, shaking his head at their banter. "I'm starting to get the feeling that you two really like to party."

Imogen smirked, tossing her hair over her shoulder with a playful glint in her eyes. "We don't like it—we love it," she declared, her tone leaving no room for doubt. Harper grinned, nodding in agreement. "Life's too short not to, right? Besides, in this town, partying isn't just for fun—it's a lifestyle. Now c'mon let's get you dressed" she gets up from the couch standing in front of him "Take your clothes off"

"Excuse me?"

[ ... ]

Harper stood over him, a vision of unapologetic power in her movements, her fingers steady and deliberate. She pulled the fishnet stockings up his legs, the intricate lace at the tops brushing against his thighs. The sensation was electric, a prickle of awareness spreading across his skin. Imogen hovered nearby, her dark eyes narrowed in concentration, her lips slightly parted as if tasting the atmosphere around them. There was a methodical cadence to their actions, as though dressing him was some dark ceremony, an offering to gods they refused to name.

"Lift," Harper commanded, and Nastassji obeyed, raising his hips as she slid the leather skirt up and over, the thick belt with its oversized buckle weighing heavily against his waist. She tugged at it, cinching it tighter, the leather creaking softly as it settled into place. It felt like armor, a barrier between him and the rest of the world, and yet it left him exposed, vulnerable to their scrutiny.

Imogen stepped forward, her hands cool and gentle as she pulled the shirt over his head, the black fabric soft against his skin. The words "J'ADORE DIOR" screamed out in red, an ironic declaration of love for something as superficial as luxury.

Harper tilted his chin up with the crook of her finger, her eyes scanning his face for any sign of dissent, but there was none. He was compliant, docile, the perfect canvas for their artistry. She draped the necklace over his head, the silver chain cold against the warm skin of his chest, the pendant a heavy weight that settled just above his heart. It was an emblem, a signifier of his place within their twisted hierarchy.

The boots came next, a rich, deep red, the color of freshly spilled blood, the leather sleek and commanding. Imogen knelt before him, her hands steady as she laced them up, the metal hooks catching the light with each pull. The boots were high, climbing up his calves, nearly to his knees, where they met the edge of the stockings. They were a statement—bold, unapologetic, and utterly domineering.

He felt them watching him, their gazes heavy with expectation, as they adorned him with the final touches. A studded bracelet encircled his wrist, a choker with spikes resting just above his collarbone. They stepped back, Harper's lips curling into a satisfied smirk, Imogen's eyes darkening with some unspoken approval.

Nastassji felt transformed, a creature of their design, molded by their hands into something both beautiful and grotesque. He was no longer just a man; he was a creation, a vessel for their desires, dressed in leather and lace, his body a canvas painted with the strokes of their intentions. And in that moment, he realized that he was theirs—not just in the way he dressed, but in the way he existed, a living, breathing testament to their power.

❲ ♱⃬ ❳

They left the apartment in silence. The walls around them, cracked and stained with years of neglect, seemed to close in, squeezing the air tight. Each step echoed, a rhythmic thud against the hollow bones of the building, as if the whole place was holding its breath, waiting for them to disappear into the night.

Harper led the way, her heels striking the ground with a sharp precision. She was dressed in a black vinyl mini-dress that hugged her body like a second skin, reflecting the dim light from the flickering bulbs overhead. Her hair, slicked back into a severe ponytail, added to the brutal elegance of her appearance. Around her neck, a thick chain dangled, almost like a leash, leading the eye down to the heavy buckle at her waist. She exuded a kind of cold, calculated confidence, the kind that made people step aside without her having to ask.

Imogen followed close behind, her outfit a stark contrast to Harper's angular severity. She wore a lavender silk slip, the fabric whispering around her thighs with each step, delicate and soft. Her stockings torn in deliberate slashes, and she wore a leather harness over the slip, crisscrossing over her chest and back. Her hair was loose, wild curls spilling over her shoulders like a dark halo. She moved with a liquid grace, her eyes half-lidded, as if she were already half-submerged in the haze of whatever awaited them.

Nastassji trailed after them, feeling both tethered to their presence and detached from his own body. The cold air bit at his skin, the city's grit sticking to the soles of his boots as they made their way to the club. His long curly black hair blew behind him.The night was alive with a muffled roar—distant sirens, the hum of traffic, the murmur of a world that was indifferent to their existence.

They arrived at Neon Church, the name glowing in garish pink letters above the entrance, flickering like a dying heartbeat. The building was a relic, a decaying monument to a past that refused to die. The facade was covered in layers of graffiti, the windows opaque with years of dirt and residue. It was a place where time had no meaning, where the present blurred with memories of nights long gone, lost to the haze of neon lights and cheap thrills.

The entrance was guarded by a bouncer with eyes that were dead to the world, his bulk taking up most of the doorway. He barely looked at them, just a quick nod to Harper, who slid a bill into his hand with a practiced ease. Inside, the club was a sensory assault—lights flashed in epileptic bursts, casting everything in violent hues of pink, green, and electric blue. The air was thick with the smell of sweat, alcohol, and something chemical, something that clawed at the back of the throat.

The music was relentless, a pulsing beat that vibrated through the walls, making the floor feel like it was alive, shifting beneath their feet. Bodies moved in a chaotic rhythm, lost in the music, in themselves, in the night that promised oblivion. The walls were lined with old televisions, their screens flickering with distorted images—fragments of retro commercials, broken scenes from forgotten films, faces that dissolved into static.

Harper led them through the crowd, her presence parting the sea of bodies with a force that was invisible yet undeniable. Imogen trailed her fingertips along the walls, leaving smudges in the grime, her expression vacant yet knowing.

Nastassji nibbled on his bottom lip, his eyes darting around the club, trying to take in everything at once. The lights seared his vision, leaving afterimages that danced in the corners of his sight, blending with the sweat-slick faces of strangers who brushed past him, their eyes glazed with something beyond intoxication. The air was electric, charged with the collective buzz of bodies pressed together, lost in their own worlds yet bound by the pulsing beat that connected them all.

He felt himself drifting, his mind detaching from the moment as if he were watching himself from a distance. The chaos of the club wrapped around him, tugging at his senses, pulling him under. The bass thrummed in his chest, a primal force that seemed to sync with the rhythm of his blood, making his pulse quicken. He licked his lips, tasting the faint salt of sweat, a reminder of his own presence in this surreal landscape.

People moved around him, their movements fluid and dreamlike, like they were underwater, slow and deliberate. Faces flashed by—some twisted in ecstasy, others in something darker, more desperate. He caught glimpses of mouths whispering secrets, eyes that held too much or nothing at all, hands that reached out but never touched. The club was a living organism, feeding on the energy of the lost and the searching, a place where reality bent and twisted under the pressure of the night.

He found himself drawn to the bar, a long slab of cracked, neon-lit glass that seemed to glow from within. Harper was already there, leaning against it with a predatory ease, her fingers tapping out an impatient rhythm. Imogen was beside her, sipping something that glowed a sickly green under the black lights, her gaze distant, like she was seeing through the walls and into another world.

Nastassji hesitated, feeling the pull of them, the magnetic force that had brought him here, into their orbit. He was caught between wanting to disappear into the crowd, to lose himself completely, and the undeniable draw of Harper and Imogen. The club was alive, breathing around him, swallowing him whole, and he knew that whatever happened here tonight would leave a mark, something indelible, etched into the fabric of his memory.

He took a step closer to them, the bass still pounding in his ears, the lights flickering in and out of focus. The night was still young, and the club was a labyrinth with no clear way out, only deeper into the madness, the delirium, the oblivion that awaited at the bottom of another drink, another hour lost to the music and the night.

Nastassji leaned against the bar, the cool surface pressing into his back as he took a slow sip of his drink, the liquid burning down his throat. Harper and Imogen were talking, their voices low and conspiratorial, but the words slipped past him, lost in the haze of the club. The lights pulsed in time with the music, casting everything in sharp, fragmented colors that made the room feel like it was spinning, tilting on an axis he couldn't quite place.

"Nastassji," Imogen's voice cut through the fog, her tone soft yet commanding. "Are you with us?"

He blinked, turning to face her, her dark eyes boring into him with a weight that made it hard to breathe. He nodded, though he wasn't sure he was.

"Good," Harper interjected, her voice a purr that vibrated in the space between them. "Stay close. Don't want you to get hurt."

She didn't elaborate, but there was something in her smile, something sharp and knowing that sent a shiver down his spine. He glanced around the club, trying to shake off the feeling of unease that clung to him like a second skin. And then, through the throng of bodies, he saw him.

Vincent Kim.

He was standing in the center of the room, a presence so powerful it seemed to warp the very air around him. The crowd moved in a fluid motion, parting around him without realizing it, as if he were the center of some invisible force field. His eyes, dark and penetrating, locked onto Nastassji's from across the room, and the world seemed to stop, the music fading into the background, the lights dimming until all that existed was the space between them.

Nastassji's breath caught in his throat, his heart hammering in his chest with a force that felt unnatural, like it was trying to break free from his ribcage. He couldn't look away, couldn't tear his gaze from Vincent's, even as he felt something stir deep within him, something ancient and unnameable. It was as if a thread had been tied between them, invisible yet unbreakable, pulling him toward Vincent with a magnetic force that defied reason.

Vincent smiled, a slow, deliberate curve of his lips that sent a shockwave through Nastassji's body. There was something in that smile. The club around them seemed to flicker, the edges of reality blurring as Vincent took a step forward, closing the distance between them.

Nastassji felt the air thicken, charged with an energy that crackled against his skin, making the hairs on the back of his neck stand on end. The lights above flickered, dimming until the only illumination came from the glowing outline of Vincent's figure, his presence like a beacon in the dark. There was something otherworldly about him, as if he existed on a different plane, just out of reach, yet undeniably there, more real than anything Nastassji had ever known.

"Who is that?" Nastassji whispered, his voice barely audible over the thrum of the bass.

"Someone you're better off not knowing, motherfucker looks like the devil" Harper murmured, her eyes narrowing as she followed his gaze. But there was no conviction in her words, only a hint of fear, of reverence, as if she too could feel the pull, the inevitability of what was about to happen.

Imogen glanced at Nastassji, her expression unreadable, but there was a flicker of something in her eyes—recognition, perhaps, or acceptance of what was to come. "He's coming for you," she said, her voice a whisper that seemed to come from somewhere else, somewhere far away.

Vincent was closer now, close enough that Nastassji could see the way the shadows clung to him, as if they were a part of him, drawn to his essence. The space between them felt charged, alive with a tension that was almost unbearable, and yet, Nastassji couldn't move, couldn't do anything but stand there as Vincent finally reached him.

The connection between them was instant, a bolt of energy that shot through Nastassji's body, igniting something deep within him, something primal and wild. The room seemed to dissolve around them, the crowd fading into nothingness, the music becoming a distant echo as Vincent's hand reached out, his fingers brushing lightly against Nastassji's cheek.

"Oh look at you," Vincent said, his voice a low, velvety whisper that sent chills down Nastassji's spine.

Nastassji's breath hitched, his body trembling under the weight of that touch, that voice, that presence. He felt as though he were falling, spiraling into an abyss that had no end, no bottom, only the darkness that enveloped him and the light that came from Vincent's eyes, drawing him deeper into the unknown.

He wanted to speak, to ask a million questions, but the words caught in his throat, trapped by the overwhelming sense of fate that hung in the air between them. It was as if this moment had been written long before either of them had existed, a story that had been waiting to unfold, and now there was no turning back.

Vincent leaned in closer, his breath warm against Nastassji's ear as he whispered, "Ah you're perfect" Nastassji's pulse thudded in his ears, drowning out the distant throb of the club's music, as Vincent's touch lingered on his cheek, a whisper of warmth against the cool darkness that seemed to swirl around them.

His eyes, impossibly dark, seemed to pull Nastassji in, deeper and deeper, like a black hole swallowing everything in its path. He could feel it—an unraveling, as though every part of him was being slowly unwound, leaving him exposed, vulnerable, and yet, inexplicably drawn to this man who stood before him like a figure from a dream, or perhaps, a nightmare.

Vincent's smile widened, a slow, deliberate curve that revealed a hint of teeth, sharp and white, like the fangs of a predator. "You have no idea what you are, do you?" he murmured, his voice as smooth and dark as the shadows that clung to him. "No idea of the power that's waiting to be unleashed."

Nastassji swallowed hard, his mouth dry, his thoughts tangled in the web Vincent was spinning around him. He wanted to look away, to break free from the grip of those eyes, but he couldn't. It was as if Vincent's gaze had rooted him to the spot, his body no longer his own, his will slipping away with every second that passed.

"Wh-what do you mean?" he managed to stammer, his voice barely more than a whisper. "I don't understand..."

Vincent chuckled softly, a low, velvety sound that sent shivers down Nastassji's spine. "Oh, but you will," he said, his tone laced with a promise that sent a thrill of both fear and anticipation through Nastassji. "You were born for this, Nastassji. Born to be something more, something greater than you could ever imagine."

He leaned in closer, his breath warm against Nastassji's ear, and the scent of him—dark, intoxicating, like burning incense and the sweetness of decay—washed over him, making his head swim. "I can see it in you," Vincent whispered, his voice soft and seductive. "The hunger, the drive. You want it, don't you? The fame, the power, the world at your feet."

Nastassji's heart skipped a beat, the words striking something deep within him, something he had buried long ago, or perhaps had never even acknowledged. He did want it—he'd always wanted it, even if he hadn't known how to reach for it, how to grasp it. And now, here was Vincent, offering it to him on a silver platter, like some twisted version of a fairy tale where the prince was a devil in disguise, and the happily-ever-after was a descent into darkness.

"I can make you a star," Vincent continued, his voice wrapping around Nastassji like a velvet shroud, each word sinking into his skin, into his bones. "I can give you everything you've ever wanted, everything you've ever dreamed of and more. The world will know your name, worship you, adore you. All you have to do is say yes."

Nastassji's breath hitched, his thoughts racing, spinning out of control. It was too much—too fast, too overwhelming—but at the same time, it was exactly what he had been waiting for, what he had been searching for in the dark corners of his mind, in the whispered dreams that he had never dared to voice. He could feel the temptation pulling at him, dragging him toward the edge, and he knew that if he took that final step, there would be no going back.

But then, as he stared into Vincent's eyes, he saw something there, something dark and ancient, a flicker of a power that was both terrifying and irresistible. It was like staring into the abyss and seeing not just the darkness, but the things that lived within it—the monsters, the demons, the fallen angels who had traded their wings for something far more dangerous.

Vincent's smile grew wider, his eyes gleaming with a predatory hunger, as if he could see the struggle in Nastassji's mind, as if he were savoring it, drawing it out. "What's the matter?" he asked, his tone mocking, almost playful. "Afraid of a little darkness? Afraid of what you might become if you give in?"

Nastassji swallowed hard, his throat tight, his chest aching with the weight of the decision before him. He could feel the pull of Vincent's words, the promise of something more, something beyond the mundane, the ordinary life he had always known. But there was also a part of him, a small, trembling part, that feared what he might lose, what he might become if he let Vincent take him, if he let himself fall into the abyss.

"You don't have to be afraid," Vincent whispered, his voice soft, almost tender. "This is your destiny, Nastassji. You were meant for this, meant to rise above the rest, to become something more. And with me by your side, you'll have everything you've ever wanted."

He paused, his eyes locking onto Nastassji's, his gaze intense, burning with an inner fire that seemed to flicker and dance like the flames of hell itself. "But remember," he added, his voice dropping to a low, dangerous murmur, "there's a price for everything. Are you willing to pay it?"

Nastassji's breath caught in his throat, his mind a whirlwind of thoughts, emotions, fears, and desires. He felt as if he were standing on the edge of a precipice, the ground crumbling beneath his feet, and all it would take was one word, one step, to send him plummeting into the unknown.

But there was something in Vincent's eyes, something that called to him, something that promised not just power and fame, but something more—something darker, deeper, something that resonated with a part of Nastassji's soul that he had never acknowledged before, but now felt burning within him, demanding to be unleashed.

Vincent smiled again, a slow, predatory grin that made Nastassji's heart skip a beat. "So, what will it be?" he asked, his voice smooth as silk, dripping with honeyed poison. "Will you embrace your destiny, or will you turn away and live in the shadows, always wondering what might have been?"

Nastassji's chest tightened, his breath shallow as he searched Vincent's face, looking for some sign, some hint of what lay beneath the surface. But all he saw was the darkness, the promise of power, of fame, of something more than he had ever dared to dream. And with that darkness came the undeniable truth—that Vincent was not just a man, but something far more dangerous, far more ancient, something that had crawled up from the depths of the earth, a creature of fire and shadow, with the devil's smile and the eyes of a fallen angel.

He knew, in that moment, that he was standing at the crossroads of his life, that whatever choice he made now would define him, would change him forever. And yet, despite the fear, despite the uncertainty, there was a part of him that wanted to say yes, that wanted to take Vincent's hand and dive headfirst into the abyss, to see what lay beyond the darkness, to become something more than he had ever been.

"Say the word, Nastassji," Vincent murmured, his voice low and hypnotic, his eyes burning with an unholy light. "Say yes, and let me make you a star. Let me show you the power you were born to wield."

Nastassji's heart pounded in his chest, the weight of the decision pressing down on him, suffocating him. But as he looked into Vincent's eyes, he felt something shift within him, a resolve, a certainty that had been buried deep, but now rose to the surface, burning with a fierce, undeniable light.

"Yes," he gasped, the word slipping past his lips before he could stop it, before he could second-guess himself. "Yes, I want it. I want everything."

Vincent's smile widened, a wicked grin that spoke of triumph, of victory, of a thousand deals struck and sealed with blood and fire. "Good," he purred, his voice thick with satisfaction. "You've made the right choice, Nastassji. You're going to be a star, brighter than any the world has ever seen. But remember..." He leaned in closer, his breath hot against Nastassji's skin, his voice dropping to a low, sinister whisper. "In the end, all stars burn out. And when you do, I'll be there to collect what's mine."

Nastassji's breath caught in his throat, a shiver running down his spine as the weight of those words settled over him, the truth of them sinking into his bones. But it was too late now—he had made his choice, and there was no turning back. Whatever came next, whatever darkness he had embraced, he would face it head-on, with Vincent by his side, leading him down the path he had chosen.

And as they stood there, in the heart of the club, surrounded by the pulsing lights and the throbbing bass, Nastassji felt something shift within him, a door opening, a power awakening that he had never known existed. It was dark, it was dangerous, but it was his. And as he looked into Vincent's eyes, he knew that whatever the future held, whatever price he had to pay, he was ready. He was ready to burn.

Nastassji blinked, the reality of what had just happened settling in like a dense fog. A shiver ran through him, not from the cold but from something far more unsettling—something he couldn't quite name. He took a step back, his thoughts swirling, replaying the conversation in his head. His heart skipped a beat as a single, undeniable fact pierced through the haze of confusion.

He had never told Vincent his name.

Nastassji's eyes narrowed, his breath catching in his throat as he stared at Vincent, who stood there, calm, collected, as if nothing were amiss. But there was something in those eyes, a flicker of amusement, a glint of knowing that made Nastassji's blood run cold.

"How... how do you know my name?" Nastassji asked, his voice trembling, barely more than a whisper. He felt exposed, as if Vincent had peeled back layers of him, stripped him bare without him even realizing it. It wasn't just unsettling—it was terrifying.

Vincent's smile widened, a slow, deliberate curve of his lips that sent a chill down Nastassji's spine. The music, the lights, the very air around them seemed to warp, twisting and curling around Vincent as though he were the center of gravity, pulling everything into his orbit.

"That's not important right now darling?" Vincent replied smoothly, his voice dripping with a dark, seductive charm. Nastassji's pulse raced, his mind scrambling to make sense of Vincent's words. This man, this stranger—no, not a stranger, not anymore—had known his name before he'd even spoken it. It was as if Vincent had reached into his mind, plucked it out from the jumble of thoughts and fears that swirled within him. But how? And why?

"You... you shouldn't know my name," Nastassji insisted, his voice faltering as he tried to hold onto some semblance of control. "I never told you."

"You did tell me Darling, don't you remember? you told me a few seconds ago, right girls" Nastassji blinked, the fog in his mind thickening for a moment before something seemed to click. The memory was hazy, indistinct, like trying to recall a dream. Had he told Vincent his name? He couldn't be sure, but Harper and Imogen were both nodding, their eyes glassy, as if they were stuck in some sort of trance.

"Yeah, Tassji, you did," Imogen echoed, her voice strangely flat, devoid of its usual warmth. It sounded off, like a recording played back at a slower speed. Harper's smile mirrored Imogen's, both of them seeming distant, disconnected from the moment.

Nastassji felt the world tilt slightly, the certainty he'd been clinging to slipping away like sand through his fingers. He forced a smile, trying to smooth over the jagged edges of his confusion. "Oh, I..." He let out a nervous chuckle, the sound forced, unnatural. "I guess I did. Sorry, um..."

He trailed off, the name on the tip of his tongue, as if it had always been there, waiting to be spoken. "Vincent," he finished, the name feeling both foreign and familiar all at once. "Vincent Kim."

Vincent's smile widened, and Nastassji felt a surge of something—recognition, connection, something deeper, darker—flow between them. It was as if Vincent had planted the name in his mind, and now it was taking root, growing, intertwining with his thoughts, with his very sense of self. The unease that had been gnawing at him began to dissipate, replaced by a strange, serene calm, as though everything had fallen into place.

"See?" Vincent's voice was smooth, reassuring, as if he'd known Nastassji would come around. "No need to be nervous, darling. We're old friends, you and I."

Nastassji nodded slowly, the remnants of doubt still lingering at the edges of his consciousness, but they were quickly being swallowed by the dark allure of Vincent's words. The way he spoke, the way he looked at Nastassji—it was as if Vincent had been waiting for this moment, for him, all along.

Vincent's hand slid into his pocket, pulling out a sleek black card, embossed with silver. He handed it to Nastassji, who took it with trembling fingers. The card was cool to the touch, almost unnaturally so, and the lettering seemed to shimmer, dancing in the dim light of the club.

"Take this," Vincent said, his voice a low purr. "It's time for you to stop hiding in the shadows, Nastassji. You're meant for greatness, and I'm going to help you get there. We'll make you a star—a real star."