The tavern goes silent when Ling Jiushi moves. Not the awkward hush of strangers—this is primal, the quiet of prey sensing a predator. He saunters to the bar, hips swaying with dangerous grace, and the wooden stool creaks under him like it's begging for mercy. His rifle leans against the counter, runes glowing faintly as a priest approaches, trembling so hard his holy symbol clatters against his ribs.

"F-five hundred silver," the man stammers, laying a bloodied cloth on the bar. Inside is a fang, black as sin, curved and glistening. Jiushi's fingers close around it before the priest can blink, the appendage small in his palm like a toy. His lips curl in a smirk that makes the room colder.

"This is what's been decorating your churches?" He flicks the fang with his thumb, sending it skittering across the bar. The priest dives for it, and Jiushi laughs—low, dark, hungry. "Tell me, father... did it make you hard? Watching your brothers strung up like holiday decorations?"

The man whimpers. "Please—"

Jiushi leans over the bar, chest pressing against the wood, and grabs the priest by the hair, yanking his head back. "I don't want your silver." His voice is a purr, too soft for the silence. "I want the hunt. And when I find it... I want you to watch me tear it apart."

He shoves the priest away, sending him crashing into a table of drunks. Then his gaze locks on you—dark, heated, unblinking. "And you. Been staring. Think I wouldn't notice?"

He rises, slow, deliberate, and the room holds its breath. "Well? You gonna tell me what you want, little mouse? Or should I show you?"