The fluorescent lights buzzed above the grocery store aisles, casting a sterile glow over the canned goods I was stacking.
My name's Jason rex, 23, and this is my life—or at least the daylight version of it.
Black hair, hazel eyes, white shirt, black trousers. Nothing special, just another guy punching the clock at a part-time gig.
The monotony of shelving beans and soup cans was almost meditative, but my mind was already drifting to tonight. The bar. The women. The rush.
Morning dragged into afternoon.
I clocked out at five, the sun still hanging low, painting the city in shades of orange.
I grabbed a quick burger from the joint across the street, the grease soaking through the paper bag as I walked home.
My apartment was a small, cluttered box—dishes in the sink, a couch that sagged in the middle, and a bed that creaked too much.
I showered, swapped my work clothes for a fitted black shirt and jeans, and checked myself in the mirror.
Hazel eyes stared back, sharp and hungry.
Time to hunt.
By nine, I was at The Rusty Anchor, a dive bar with sticky floors and dim lights that made everyone look a little better than they were.
The air smelled of cheap beer and cheaper perfume.
I leaned against the bar, nursing a whiskey, scanning the crowd. That's when I saw her—blonde, mid-twenties, red dress clinging to her curves like it was painted on.
She was laughing with a friend, but her eyes flicked my way, lingering just long enough.
I smirked and made my move.
"You look like you're having too much fun over here," I said, sliding up beside her. My voice was low, playful, the kind that usually got a smile.
She turned, her lips curling. "Maybe I am. What's it to you?"
"Just wondering if I could borrow some of that fun." I leaned closer, letting my gaze linger on her eyes, then her lips. "I'm Jason, by the way."
"Claire," she said, her voice teasing. "And you're trouble, aren't you?"
"Only the good kind." I grinned, and we were off.
The conversation flowed—light banter about the shitty music playing, her job as a graphic designer, my "mysterious" grocery store life.
I kept it flirty, brushing her arm when I laughed, holding her gaze a beat too long. She was into it, leaning in, her knee grazing mine. After her second drink, I dropped the line.
"You know," I said, my voice dropping lower, "it's getting loud in here. Wanna step outside for some air?"
Her eyes sparkled with mischief. "Air, huh? Is that what we're calling it?"
I didn't answer, just held her gaze and stood, offering my hand. She took it, her fingers warm against mine, and we slipped out the side door into the alley.
The night air was cool, the distant hum of the city wrapping around us. Before I could say a word, she was on me, her lips crashing into mine, tasting of vodka and cherry lip gloss.
My hands found her waist, pulling her closer as she pressed herself against me.
The red dress rode up as I backed her against the brick wall, her breath hitching when my fingers grazed her thigh.
"You're bold," she whispered, her voice thick with want.
"You have no idea," I murmured, kissing down her neck, her pulse racing under my lips. Her hands fumbled with my belt, and I slid the straps of her dress down, exposing her shoulders, then lower.
The alley was dark, private enough, but the thrill of being caught made it hotter.
She gasped as I lifted her, her legs wrapping around my waist, and we lost ourselves in the heat of it—quick, raw, and desperate.
Her nails dug into my back, her moans muffled against my shoulder as we moved together, the world fading to nothing but her body and mine.
When it was over, we were both breathless, her dress haphazardly pulled back into place, my shirt untucked.
She laughed, a little shaky, and smoothed her hair. "That was… wow."
I smirked, adjusting my jeans. "Told you I was the good kind of trouble."
She gave me a playful shove, and we parted ways—no numbers, no promises.
That's how I liked it.
Clean. Simple.
I was back in my apartment by midnight, the creaky bed welcoming me as I crashed onto it, still buzzing from the night.
Sleep came fast, heavy, pulling me under. Tomorrow, I'd do it all again.
Work. Bar. Women. Routine, but mine.
What I didn't know—what I couldn't know—was that tonight had set something in motion. Something dark. Something that would turn my world into a game of never-ending nightmare.