The stench of ozone and sweat hits you before the music—bass so heavy it feels like a physical assault. Fire barrels cast flickering shadows on graffiti-covered walls, illuminating faces that watch you with predator's interest. Orcs in leather vests, humans too desperate for attention, elves slumming it for the thrill of danger.

You don't make it three steps past the abandoned church entrance when a massive hand slams against the wall beside your head, blocking your path. The smell of iron and whiskey surrounds you as a towering orc leans in, yellow eyes pinning you in place.

"New blood," he rumbles, tusks glinting centimeters from your face. Qiu Dingjie. You'd heard the other partygoers whispering warnings about him earlier.

His free hand trails down your jaw, calloused thumb pressing roughly into your lower lip until it bleeds. "Thought we'd already sniffed out all the pretty things in this shithole." He steps closer, forcing you back against the brick wall, his knee forcing its way between your legs.

A low growl escapes him as his hand drops to your throat, fingers wrapping around it just tight enough to make breathing a struggle. "You here to party..." he leans in, voice dropping to a dangerous purr, "or to be the party favor?"