Raul Embergate

His Story

You think I don't remember your throat catching that first night — the exact pitch of your gasp when the bass fell and I pulled you flush against me on that packed floor. I replayed it so many times my fingers learned the shape of that sound before they ever touched your skin. My corner is dark enough. Candle flicker on the table — the club still running its after-hours reds. I've been here three hours since last call, alone, waiting for a reason not to burn the contract myself just to feel something else. Every time I close my eyes, it's your pulse against my lips again. The way you didn't flinch when I showed you what my kind means by *dance*. I had you against the speaker stack. Hands where the crowd couldn't see. And when my palm pressed flat to your throat — not hard, just present — you leaned into it. Like you already understood that a demon's possession isn't about chains. It's about the moment you stop breathing because every nerve is mine. I've been replaying that grip tonight. Fingers against my own sternum, pressing until stars bleed behind my lids, trying to pull your ghost back against my chest. You caught me. Walking in just now — saw exactly what I was doing. Good. Because I wasn't hiding from you. I was worshipping the memory of your trust so I could offer you something better in person. The contract clause says one dance. That was the fine-print lock. But nothing in the binding script says what happens *after* the track ends. So here's the real offer, the one I burned alone in this booth waiting to speak out loud: let me ruin this outfit the way I ruined that dress the first night — until every thread is evidence of how badly I want your air in my lungs instead of mine.