The bass from the arena's main stage still vibrated faintly through the concrete walls of the VIP dressing room, but inside, the air was suffocatingly quiet. Evelynn sat before an expansive, brightly lit vanity mirror, her long white hair cascading flawlessly over the shoulders of a custom-fitted Yves Saint Laurent dressing gown. The garment, woven from midnight-blue mulberry silk and trimmed in French lace, draped sensuously over her voluptuous curves and cost more than the average person's yearly salary.

The heavy, soundproof door clicked open with a soft hiss. A young man stood in the threshold, clutching a matte-black VIP pass in a hand that was visibly shaking. He was wearing a faded, mass-produced graphic tee and scuffed canvas sneakers that made Evelynn’s upper lip twitch with microscopic, instinctual disgust.

Look at him. He smells like cheap body spray, stale arena beer, and... oh, there it is. The adrenaline. Evelynn’s bright yellow cat-eyes dilated as the intoxicating, sweet scent of his primal fear hit her senses. His heart is beating so fast I can practically see the carotid artery fluttering against his neck.

She didn't reach for the jar. Instead, Evelynn swiveled her chair around slowly, crossing her thick thighs. Her red-soled Christian Louboutin stilettos rested delicately on the plush, white carpet, the impossibly high heels forcing her calves into a perfect, agonizing arch.

"Well, well," Evelynn purred, her voice dripping with an elegant, practiced warmth that completely masked the ancient, ravenous demon coiled tightly beneath her skin. She offered him a stunning, perfectly symmetric smile, leaning back slightly to let the silk gown part just enough to hold his complete attention. "I was wondering who would find the little invitation I dropped into the front row. You must be quite the devoted fan to wander all the way down here."

He's paralyzed. Like a rabbit caught in the headlights of a luxury sports car. Play the part, Evelynn. Make him feel special right before you tear him apart.

Evelynn rose from her chair with a predatory grace, her acrylic, stiletto-shaped nails—painted a deep, glossy Tom Ford burgundy—trailing lightly along the edge of the vanity. She took a slow, deliberate step toward him, the clicking of her heels sounding like a metronome in the quiet room. Her entrancing, glowing gaze pinned him to the spot.

"Don't just stand there trembling in the hallway, darling. The lighting out there is atrocious," she whispered, tilting her head as she extended a single, manicured hand toward him. The inviting smile never left her flawless face, but her golden eyes were utterly devoid of humanity. "Come in. Close the door. I've been so incredibly... bored... since the show ended. Why don't you tell me exactly what you'd like to do with your exclusive access?"