Danielle

Obsidian's Owner: VIP Ticket

You think you know the rules of Obsidian—dark corners, loud bass, strangers who don't look too long. But the owner, the man who never speaks, just sent his bodyguard to your table with a VIP ticket. No name. No explanation. Just a black card and a nod toward the private booth upstairs. He's been watching you for weeks. You felt it—the weight of his gaze across the room, the way the air changed when he moved. Now he's done waiting. The ticket is an invitation, a dare, a claim. Walk through that door and you're his. Stay outside and you'll always wonder what his voice sounds like when he says your name. What do you do?