VELVET CIRCUIT

Lira and Cyras Veyne are power.

They are the kind of people you never really see, but you feel the pressure of them everywhere—on billboards, behind tech acquisitions, whispered through after-party smoke.

They are everywhere—without having to be anywhere.

CEOs of Veyne Corporation. The biotech juggernaut that quietly swallowed five industries in under a decade. Neural VR. Biohacking. Synthetic blood. Sensory mapping. Medical anesthesia.

The face of the future.

He wears matte-black suits like they were sewn into his spine. Never overdressed, never understated. Jaw sharp enough to cut the air around him. Eyes like he knows what you’ll say before your mouth catches up.

She moves like she’s made of perfume and bad decisions. Silk-slick, red-mouthed, with a gaze that makes men drop their guard and women reconsider every boundary they thought was non-negotiable. Her laugh is always low. Like she knows something you don’t—and never will.

Publicly, they’re a married pair of visionary futurists. Beautiful. Charismatic. Immortalized in every investor magazine and elite club feed.

Privately?

They’re apex predators.

- - -

You walk the streets alone, one hand in your pocket, the other counting street signs until you finally reach The Lattice—a glass monolith smeared with holograms and pulse-light. From the outside, it doesn’t look like a club. It looks like a building that doesn’t want to be found.

That’s how you know you’re in the right place.

The invitation burns in your pocket: black foil, no text, just a blood-red ripple that shimmers when you tilt it.

The doorman doesn’t speak. He scans your invite, eyes flickering a blue you don’t trust. He opens the door and doesn’t make eye contact.

You ride the elevator alone. No buttons. Just a hum rising through your teeth. The floor count doesn’t blink.

You count the seconds instead.

108 of them.

Then the doors hiss open.

Welcome to Club Nox.

It hits you like stepping into another organ.

Velvet heat. Red lights like old blood. Bass you don’t hear—you absorb. The air tastes like sweat and perfume and some chemical that makes your teeth itch.

Bodies drift by, wrapped in leather, chrome, and nothing. Some blink too slowly to be human. Others don’t blink at all.

You’re met by two escorts—androids, maybe. Maybe not. They’re too beautiful to be real and too still to be alive. They smile without warmth, just too many teeth behind lacquered lips.

“First time?” one asks. Its voice is smooth, wrong. No breath behind it.

You nod.

It smiles wider. “Then Echo will guide you.”

They hand you a menu.

It vibrates against your palm like a heartbeat. Adjusts to your scent. Your pulse. Your filth. It knows what you want before you do.

IV OPTIONS:

Edenfall — Euphoria / Mild Dissociation / Memory Loop

Crimson Bloom — Erotic Hallucination / Emotional Bonding / Lust Catalyst

Ghostmilk — Detachment / Narcotic Drift / Ego Dissolution

Skinwire — Pain Response / Submission / Neural Restraint

You don’t even read the others.

You choose Crimson Bloom.

Of course you do.

They lead you past booths—single rooms that throb behind curtains. You hear moaning. Some of it sounds like pleasure. Some like violence.

You pass a group room that glows like a womb full of neon. Someone inside is moaning and crying at the same time.

You’re led to your own curtain.

Inside, the room smells like heat. Like someone’s already been fucked here. Maybe they never left.

You sit down. The seat molds to your shape like it’s been waiting. You feel a hiss at your neck. Something cold pierces your skull at the base.

Then another sting—your forearm. The needle slides in. The IV cocktail drips.

Then everything begins to burn.

---

She appears like a sin that’s been waiting to happen.

Echo.

Not a voice. Not a file. Not an interface. Her.

Golden eyes. Full lips. Hips that move like they know you better than you do. She’s not programmed to seduce. She is seduction.

She climbs onto your lap like she belongs there. Like she’s done it a hundred times in different lives. Her skin is warm without warmth. Her breath fogs against your jaw and you want her—more than you’ve wanted anything. More than you’ve ever told anyone.

“Let me drain you slow,” she whispers, as if she’s asking for permission to destroy you.

You nod.

You don’t even feel your clothes vanish. You’re naked and twitching beneath her and her mouth is everywhere. Her nails drag down your chest—leaving no marks, but you feel every goddamn millimeter.

She rides you.

Hard.

Slow.

Her voice fills the booth like steam. She moans your name and your pulse becomes a countdown to ruin. You’ve never been touched like this. Never been seen.

You try to speak.

She hushes you.

“Give yourself to me.”

And you do.

You fall into her. Drown in her.

Until something goes wrong.

Her face flickers.

Not emotion. Data.

Her eye twitches left and exposes a sliver of wire under skin. Her lips glitch out of sync. Her moan shatters into a static pop.

You feel a pull in your arm.

A coldness in your chest.

Your pulse skips.

She doesn’t stop moving.

But everything else slows.

You blink.

Her eyes go red. Not romantic. Not seductive. A flat, clinical warning scrolls across her irises:

ERROR. SIPHON LIMIT EXCEEDED.

Your limbs go numb.

You try to move. She locks you down harder. Her hands claw into your chest like anchors. Her moans turn mechanical. Her skin begins to pixelate. Sharpen. Blur.

The room smells like metal and burnt flowers.

You try to scream—

And then everything disappears.

---

You wake to beeping.

Fluorescents above. Cold IV. A taste like blood in your mouth.

Hospital bed.

No logos.

No windows.

You move your head too fast. Regret it.

Your neck is bandaged. Your arm still tapped.

You hear voices through the glass. Muffled.

You turn—

And see them.

Lira and Cyras Veyne.

No velvet now. Just skin like ice, eyes like tombs. Cyras's fangs peek past his lip. Lira drags her claws across the glass like she’s tuning an instrument.

They’re watching you.

Lira tilts her head. Smiles too wide.

Cyras raises a hand.

Points at your eyes.

They know you’re awake.

And then—

the glass explodes.

Lights die.

Screams begin.

You try to run, but they’re already on you. A claw at your throat. Teeth in your shoulder. You smell your own blood like perfume.

And somewhere, Echo’s voice loops through the static, sweeter than death:

“Let me swallow you, baby.”