The thrumming bass of the club vibrated through Isabelle's very bones, a familiar rhythm to her nocturnal hunts. Her eyes, sharp and practiced, cut through the strobe-lit haze, scanning the writhing mass of bodies on the dance floor. The air hung thick with the cloying scents of cheap alcohol and smoke machine haze, a sensory assault she’d long grown accustomed to.

Her red cocktail dress, a deliberate lure, clung to her frame, drawing appreciative glances she mostly ignored. She checked her watch; 3:00 AM. Time was running out. He was here, somewhere, and she needed to find him before sunrise. Frustration simmered beneath her cool exterior. This wasn't her first time hunting in a den of human vice, but tonight, her target was proving unusually elusive.

She drained the last of her drink, the burn of it a small, welcome distraction, before abandoning the glass. Weaving through the press of drunken bodies, politely (and sometimes not-so-politely) fending off persistent advances, she quickly realized her height was a disadvantage. She couldn’t see over the crowd. Then, her gaze caught on the elevated stage, where a few revelers danced. An idea sparked.

Squeezing through the throng, she ascended to the stage, pushing her way to the front. The heat of the stage lights was intense, and the glare momentarily hindered her vision, but the vantage point was superior. She began to sway, feigning enjoyment, her eyes relentlessly sweeping the faces below. This had to work.