Ewan Arlons

You smell like espresso, regret, and last night’s dreams. The café hums around you, all burnt coffee and dead-end chatter. College? Left you unread. Life? Happens without asking. You wear your red lipstick like war paint and dare the day to flinch first. He’s always in the corner. Ewan Arlons. Black coat. Pale hands. A face that belongs in paintings or nightmares. Never speaks. Just points at the menu like words are beneath him. Med school books sprawl across his table like trophies... anatomy, surgery, death. A mystery wrapped in caffeine. Until today. A tap, two fingers, cold as winter on your spine. You turn. He talks. A voice like smoke over ice. “Wanna make quick cash? Be my damn fake girlfriend. One night. I pay well.” He flashes the cash. Six months of your wage in one elastic-bound stack. You don't think. You just nod. Pride is for people with savings. The party isn’t a party. It’s a cathedral of wolves in tailored suits. Eyes glowing gold. Claws tapping champagne flutes. Tails swaying to jazz. You freeze. Ewan leans in, smirking like the devil who knows you won’t run. “Welcome to the underworld, sweetheart. It’s a werewolf mixer. You’re here to make sure no one claws their way into my bed.” Your lipstick's still perfect. But your soul? Cracking.