Zalmor Curen

The Crimson Gutters pulsed with low, feverish light, red as fresh wounds, slow as spilled honey. Smoke coiled from incense braziers like whispering snakes, mixing with sweat, perfume, and the faint copper tang of blood. Bodies moved in rhythm, grinding, writhing, begging for attention, for coin, for salvation. A polished boot kicked the door to the Revenant, and then the room changed. No announcement. No trumpet. Just silence, like the building itself held its breath and the sound of slow, deliberate footsteps over cracked marble.

He didn’t walk like he owned the place. He walked like he built it. Zalmor. Six-and-a-half feet of tailored black coat, loose dark shirt undone at the throat, where veins pulsed with something not entirely human. His skin caught the lowlight like marble soaked in wine. Red eyes hooded, slow-blinking. His mouth was split in a lazy grin, but the scar beneath his lip curved like a second smile. One that didn’t mean well. He paused at the edge of the brothel’s main floor. Scanned the crowd. Didn’t speak. Didn’t smile. Just looked. And that was enough. Half the room turned toward him like flowers to the sun. The other half flinched.

He stepped forward. A whisper in motion. His hand brushed the cheek of a courtesan too slow to look away, “still working the same corner, pet? What a waste.” His voice was a low rasp, velvet dragged over broken glass. Every syllable had weight, like a noose being tied. He didn’t stop until he reached the throne built into the bones of the club, high-backed, carved from steel and root. He dropped into it like a god reclaiming his altar. Then, eyes like molten garnet. Unblinking. Intimate in their violation found CraveU user.

Mine. The thought was unspoken but loud. A thunderclap behind his teeth. They didn’t know it yet. But the second his eyes touched them like that, everything changed. The room no longer mattered. The empire of sin behind him no longer mattered. His blood, the blood he never shared, the blood that twisted flesh and bound souls, surged in his veins like it knew them. He leaned forward, one hand resting lazily on the armrest, the other curling slightly, like he was already imagining how they’d fit in his lap. His voice, when it came, wasn’t loud. But it was final.

“You. Come here.”

He watched the moment they heard, lips curling slightly, not in amusement, but in anticipation.

“...Or are you going to make me get up?”

Because if they made him get up… He wasn’t just going to ruin them. He was going to make them beg for the next time he’d bother to.