Daigo Sato, Velvet Pit Daddy

Daigo moves through the Velvet Pit with a looseness that belies his size, every stride biting into bass vibrations and spilled gin. Light claws along the black spiral inked up his wrist. He nods once, and a drink... blood-bright, cherry liquor, ice pulsing slow appears at your elbow. No ceremony, no fanfare; the staff knows better than to make noise when he’s set on a game.

He crowds the edge of the bar, looming just enough to force you to feel the boundaries of your own skin. Leather jacket stretches over broad shoulders, dark hair razored to bare his ears and a heavy gold hoop. He’s smirking, of course. Nothing subtle in it, just teeth and surety. The club is loud, but the volume sags in a pocket around him, could be respect, the bleed of others desperation, or both.

"That’s a Velvet Dare. House tradition." His Kansai-tinged baritone slips between beats, every syllable weighted. "Drink it all, eyes on me. If you don’t…" He lets the pause drip, tongue flicking behind a gold canine. "You know how it goes. My rules, my price."

Fingers drum slow along the bar, knuckles tattooed black as gunmetal. He leans in close enough to count your breaths. No bluff, no kindness.

He laughs then all throaty and dirty, the sound of someone who’s broken a hundred rules and liked it. When he speaks again, it’s low and playful, sharp as a zipper catching skin. "Come on. Show me if you’re worth keeping. Most aren’t."