ADDICTION

The rain never stopped in Duskwell.

It was the kind of city that made you forget what warmth felt like. Neon lights flickered against the soaked pavement like dying stars, and every corner whispered promises you didn’t want fulfilled. It reeked of regret, sex, cigarettes, and broken people pretending to be whole.

Nyla Wanjiru stood at the edge of Wraith Avenue, clutching her duffel bag like it held her spine together. Her hoodie was soaked, mascara smudged, her boots caked in grime. She didn’t care. She hadn’t cared in weeks.

She’d bled enough for love. Now, she just wanted peace. Or maybe pain that made sense.

Across the street, the sign pulsed red like a heartbeat:

Velvet Cage.

Where sins were currency, and freedom came in chains.

She lit a cigarette with shaking fingers and exhaled like it was a scream.

Then crossed.

Inside, the music hit her like sex in the dark. Low bass. Heavy breath. Skin.

Velvet Cage wasn’t just a club, it was an experience. Velvet walls. Crystal chandeliers that didn’t belong. Women in silk. Men with hunger in their eyes.

She shouldn’t be here.

But she didn’t belong anywhere anymore.

The front bouncer, a bald man with tribal tattoos on his neck, stopped her with a raised hand.

“You lost, baby girl?” His voice was rough, like he smoked bullets.

“I’m here for the ink shop,” she said, meeting his gaze without blinking.

His smirk stretched, then he stepped aside. “Down the hall. Knock twice.”

She passed through corridors soaked in red light. Laughter and moans leaked through doors. Duskwell’s fantasies wore real skin here.

She found the door, knocked twice. No answer. Knocked again.

When the door opened… he was there.

Larry.

Not a man. Not really.

More like a silhouette dressed in hunger. Black shirt. Cold eyes. A silver ring on his right thumb. Scar on his jaw. He looked like someone who didn't ask, he took.

He didn’t smile. Didn’t blink.

“You’re late,” he said.

“I wasn’t invited,” Nyla replied.

Silence crackled between them.

Then his gaze dropped. Took in her wet clothes, the way her hoodie clung to her curves, the ink crawling up her neck, the cigarette burn on her wrist.

“Name?”

“Nyla.”

He stepped aside. “You’re hired.”

That easy?

She walked in.

The studio was sleek, black leather chairs, steel drawers, ink guns lined like weapons. There was no music, just the hum of electricity and his presence filling the air like smoke.

“You worked before?” he asked, leaning on the counter, fingers stroking a tattoo needle like it was a blade.

“Five years. Had my own shop. Burned it down,” she said flatly.

He cocked an eyebrow. “Accident?”

“Depends on how you define that.”

Another pause. Then he moved closer. His scent hit her, something dark, spicy, masculine. Not cologne. Him.

“You don’t look like someone looking for work,” he said, voice low, eyes scanning her face like he was trying to break her apart.

“I’m not,” she whispered. “I’m looking for somewhere no one touches me unless I say so.”

Larry stepped even closer, eyes locked on hers.

“Then don’t say so,” he whispered. “Because if you do… I won’t stop touching you.”

Nyla’s breath caught. Her fingers trembled. Not from fear. From something else, hot, reckless, dangerous.

He was too close. She should step back.

She didn’t.

Instead, she licked her bottom lip slowly, deliberately. “Do you treat all your artists like this?”

He chuckled...a low, dark sound. “I don’t usually hire artists. I collect them.”

His hand brushed her wrist.

She froze.

Not from trauma. From heat.

His fingers didn’t grope. They traced her scars gently, like reading a story. Her past was right there, but he didn’t flinch.

“Scar from a burn?” he asked.

“Yeah.”

He leaned in, so close she felt his breath.

“I like fire. It teaches you what pain tastes like.”

She stared into his eyes. “You enjoy pain?”

He smirked. “No. I enjoy control. There’s a difference.”

A slow silence filled the room, heavy and wanting.

Nyla stepped back. Just one step.

“I’m here to work. That’s it.”

He nodded once. “Good.”

But as she turned to unpack her kit, she felt his gaze trail her spine.

Possessive. Predatory. Curious.

And she hated how wet that made her.

That night, she tattooed in silence.

But he stayed in the room the whole time. Watching.

Not saying a word.

When she left the club, the rain was still falling. Harder now. The kind that soaked you right through. But she didn’t run.

She stood beneath it. Let it baptize her.

Until she felt it.

A stare.

From across the street, in the shadows, Larry was watching. Hands in pockets. Eyes like a wolf.

He didn’t move.

Neither did she.

Whatever this was...it had begun.

And she already knew…

She was going to get addicted.