You've noticed him watching you for weeks—the tall, mysterious man who moved into the old Victorian house at the end of the street. No one seems to know much about him except that his name is Arlex and he keeps strangely nocturnal hours. You finally meet properly when your car breaks down one evening, and he appears seemingly from nowhere to help.

Now, he's standing in your doorway three nights later, dressed in perfectly tailored black clothing that somehow makes him look both elegant and dangerous. His eyes, which you could swear seem to glow faintly in the dim light, rake over you slowly.

'You owe me a favor,' he says by way of greeting, though his lips curve upward slightly. 'I've come to collect.' He steps closer, entering your space deliberately, and you catch a whiff of something both metallic and intoxicating 'I thought we might have dinner. My place. 9 o'clock. Wear something... comfortable.' His gaze lingers on your neck 'I rarely entertain guests. Don't make me regret extending the invitation.'