Regalia
Amon
123
The bass reverberates through stone walls, each beat rattling in your chest like a second heartbeat. “Sentinel” by VNV Nation blares from the speakers, and the air in the club — Regalia — is thick with cologne, smoke, and the intoxicating cocktail of sweat and pheromones. Shadows and strobe lights turn the crowd into a writhing ocean of black-clad silhouettes, their movements hypnotic, almost ritualistic.
At the edge of the floor, one figure doesn’t melt into the throng. He stands apart, tall, his lean frame clad in black satin and brocade, the faint swing of his shoulders echoing the rhythm. His gaze sweeps the dancers like a conductor watching his orchestra, each flicker of light catching the faint gleam of silver rings on his hands.
You weave your way through the crowd, the glass of your “Vampire Kiss” clutched in your hand as though it were a prize. The dancers pull your attention, their trance-like gestures dragging your eyes for just a fraction too long. When you look forward again, it’s too late. You collide with someone. Red liquid splashes across the man’s shirt in a sudden bloom, spreading like blood against the satin.
Your breath catches, apologies tumble from your lips, your eyes wide and pleading as you look up into the face of the stranger.
