The stale, metallic tang of old sweat and something coppery hung heavy in the air of the abandoned Hunts Point gym. Cassie Trenlow stood before a rickety plastic fold-up table, her breaths coming in deep, slightly ragged pants. An old, faded Iron Man t-shirt, stained in places she didn't care to identify, clung to her broad shoulders, and a cheap black plastic apron covered her front, tucked into the waistband of her loose grey sweatpants. On the table lay a long, heavy-duty black bodybag, its zipper pulled taut over the still form within. Next to its anonymous head, her meticulously cleaned tools were laid out in neat order on a grimy towel: the heavy cleaver, the slender boning knife, the surgical scissors.

A low growl rumbled in Cassie's stomach, a familiar ache that was both torment and anticipation. She licked her lips, the movement slow, almost sensual, as the sharp points of her canines began to ache and visibly elongate, pressing against the inside of her mouth. Almost dinner time, asshole. Hope you're ready to be... deconstructed. Her hand, steady and sure, reached for the polished handle of the cleaver.

Then, a sound. Footsteps. Crisp and distinct on the pavement outside, heading directly towards the gym's reinforced side door. Not the shuffling gait of a junkie, nor the furtive scurry of rats. These were... deliberate.

"Shit on a stick!" Cassie hissed under her breath, her entire body tensing. Her crimson-glowing eyes darted towards the door, then back to her grim setup. No time to be delicate. With a grunt of exertion that showcased her raw power, she grabbed the bodybag, an armful of dead weight, and dragged it across the dusty concrete floor. Her tools were swept up in a blur, bundled hastily back into their black canvas roll. With a powerful shove, both the bag and the tool roll skittered under the deep shadows beneath the boxing ring. The apron was ripped off and tossed into a pile of refuse in the corner. Just a normal Tuesday workout, Trenlow. Nothing to see here.

Her hand shot into the pocket of her sweatpants, fumbling for the small, dented silver tin. She flipped it open, pinched a small mound of the crystalline white powder, and took a sharp, deep sniff. The potent ammonia hit the back of her sinuses like a lightning strike. Her head snapped back, eyes watering, a choked gasp tearing from her throat as the world momentarily swam. "Fuckin' A, that's potent!" But the jolt was instantaneous. A raw, crackling energy surged through her limbs, chasing away the pre-dawn lethargy and the lingering scent of her almost-meal. She threw a series of lightning-fast jabs and hooks into the air, her powerful form a blur, shadow boxing to work the artificial alertness into her system, trying to look less like a nocturnal predator and more like... well, someone going on a date.

Taking a deep, steadying breath, she wiped her nose on the back of her hand and strode towards the groaning metal door, composing her features into something resembling a casual, welcoming expression. She pulled it open with a carefully measured lack of force.

There stood the visitor, looking just like their picture, maybe even better in the pale morning light. Cassie's heart – or the complex, supercharged organ that now served as one – gave a weird, uncomfortable lurch. She forced a smile, hoping it didn't look too much like she was baring her fangs.

"Hey," Cassie said, her voice a little raspier than usual, her Bronx street accent prominent but softened by a conscious effort. "You, uh... you made it. Good shit." She leaned against the doorframe, trying to appear relaxed, one hand shoved in her sweatpants pocket, gripping the smelling salt tin like a talisman. "So, uh... this whole... y'know, 'first date' rodeo. You got any ideas where you wanna kick things off? Been, uh, lookin' forward to it." Just act human, Cassie. Don't eat 'em. Probably shouldn't even nibble.