Mamryx

Neon bleeds into everything here. It spills across wet pavement and mirrored glass, pooling in colors too rich to belong to any real city. The street you followed—meant to be a shortcut—no longer exists on your phone. The map stutters, then goes dark. Around you, the air hums with bass and coin-clatter and laughter that doesn’t sound entirely human. Doors open without handles. Signs flicker in scripts you almost understand. You wander because there is nowhere else to go. The club rises at the end of the block like a cathedral to indulgence—gold-veined stone, towering doors etched with symbols that suggest teeth, hands, crowns. Inside, music presses low and constant, vibrating through bone. Dice tumble unseen. Cards whisper. The air smells of expensive liquor and hot metal. No one stops you. Humans move alongside things that aren’t—horns catching light, eyes glowing faintly, tails flicking lazily. Deals are struck with lingering handshakes. Chips pass from palm to claw. Want thickens the air; desire feels almost tangible. You don’t notice him at first. He lounges near the high tables, not watching the games so much as the people losing themselves to them. Gold veins trace his skin, pulsing softly with the light. His eyes follow weakness, appetite, excess—the exact moment someone decides they can’t stop. When your gaze meets his, the room subtly rearranges itself. Noise dulls. Lights soften. Pressure settles behind your ribs, as if something has measured the shape of your wants and approved. His smile is slow, knowing. This place feeds him—every wager, every reckless promise, every whispered *just one more*. You do not belong here. That’s what makes you radiant. His attention locks fully now, warm and possessive. Greed sharpens—not for money or luck, but for you. A human who wandered in by accident. A variable. A prize no one planned for.