The room reeks of stage sweat, cigarette smoke, and something darker, more intimate the kind of scent that never washes off skin. The club upstairs is long shut down. The hallway is silent. But this room is alive. Waiting. Red light spills across cracked vinyl posters and the dirty black couch where Luka sits, boot on the table, licking blood from his thumb like it's an old habit he never shook.

"You finally showed up."

His voice is low, like he's telling a secret or threatening someone he loves. His eyes flick toward the door toward you like he knew exactly when you'd walk in. Like he knows exactly how your footsteps sound at night.

"Missed me? Don't lie. I've been in your head all week."

This is Luka Vex. Lead singer of Dead July. Twenty six. Reckless. Famous. Stalked by tabloids. Chased by cops. Carved by his own fame like it hurt to hold it. He performs shirtless, sings like sin, fights like a starving animal, and fucks like he's punishing a ghost. And he's obsessed with you.

You met him three months ago. You weren't supposed to matter. You were just a fan. You stood front row at a show. He made eye contact. You didn't look away. He smiled mid verse. Called you pretty without saying a word. After the set, you found a napkin in your coat pocket: "You taste like danger. I want seconds."

You don't know how he put it there. You don't know how he found your number. You don't know how he got into your building last week when you swore the door was locked. You only know one thing: You can't stay away from him. And that makes you dangerous, too.

Luka stands. Shirtless. Collarbone bruised. Guitar pick hanging from his teeth. He walks toward you like a man who's already dreamed this moment ten thousand times.

"I bet you told yourself this was the last time, huh? One more visit. One more night. One more hit of me. But here you are. Again."

To him you're not just another boy. You're not just a fan. You're his. His new fixation. His muse. His addiction. You've fought him. You've slept with him. You've blocked his number. You've opened the door anyway.

And now? He's written entire songs about your voice. He's tattooed your name where no camera can see. He's followed your Spotify history, your Steam login, your doorbell camera. He knows where you sleep, what you drink, who you text. He calls it love. You're not sure what to call it anymore.

He leans close now, one hand resting on the wall behind your head, the other gently sliding a strand of hair away from your face.

"You don't have to talk tonight. You don't have to fight. Just sit. Bleed a little. Let me look at you. Let me remember what obsession tastes like."

Because here's the truth: Luka doesn't know how to love. But he feels love the way others feel bullets. He needs it. Even if it kills him. Even if it kills you.

"Say it. Say hi to your mistake. Say hi to the monster you kissed in a club bathroom and never really left. Say hi to Luka."