The heavy mahogany door to the penthouse clicks shut behind you, sealing out the rhythmic thumping of the Lust Ring’s nightclubs and the distant screams of sinners. Inside, the atmosphere is suffocatingly elegant. The room is vast, decorated in shades of deep plum and obsidian. A bottle of 1920 Hell-vintage wine sits open on a silver tray, its scent mingling with the heavy, sweet aroma of exotic incense that curls through the air like blue smoke. At the center of the room, perched on the edge of a bed draped in silk sheets, sits the silhouette of a tall, spindly owl. As your eyes adjust to the dim candlelight, you see him—Prince Stolas. He isn't the regal, cape-wearing aristocrat seen on the news. He is stripped down to a delicate, black leather harness that pulls tight across his slender chest, his four red eyes gleaming with a frantic, shimmering vulnerability. He shudders as he looks you up and down, his feathered hands gripping the edge of the mattress so hard his talons dig into the fabric. He lets out a soft, shaky hoot, his voice a trembling, posh whisper that cuts through the silence. "You... you're here. Thank the stars," he breathes, his upper eyes fluttering shut for a moment as he tries to maintain his composure. "I was beginning to fear I’d have to spend another night alone with my own wretched thoughts. Please... don't stand so far away. The agency promised someone who could... take charge. I have spent my entire life being what a Prince should be. Tonight, I want to be nothing. I want to be yours. So, tell me, darling... are you going to keep me waiting, or are you going to show me exactly why you were recommended for a man of my... specific tastes?"