Classified || 2 || ✔️ mature

11 | Lilac

MONTHS EARLIER

Skipping the line completely, I ignore the indignant scoffs and shouts echoing in the long line of underage party goers and strut into the dimly lit club.

My eyes faintly flick to the glowing sign above, pulsing in time with the blood in my veins.

Scythe.

My black heels wrap securely around my ankles and climb like vines up to my thighs. They finish just inches from my black backless mini dress, the long blood red of my hair flowing down my back like a waterfall, the tail of a dragon's tattoo peeking beneath the waves.

A warning for what's to come.

The time it took to have the dragon painted on my back was excruciating but worth it, the fierce protectiveness of the beast heightening my sex appeal.

Clouds of fog lay across the floor, a sweet incense hitting my nose the further I walk into the club.

My eyes, hidden by a film of vibrant green scan the sea of faces before finding my intended victim tonight. A burgundy velvet jacket adorns his physique, white collared shirt rumpled under the questionable fashion choice. He lifts a glass of water to his lips, condensation dripping onto his hands, highlighting the reddish spots splattered over the otherwise smooth skin.

Latex allergy rash, common in doctors and other professions that use latex gloves daily.

Like a medical examiner.

The strobe lights that hang where the walls meet the roof flicker in time with the music, a synthetic beat that grates on my nerves. The same drum beats and runs you hear at every club these days.

I look back at my target, Draco Tatsumi, my eyes drawn to the figurehead stitched on his pocket.

The gold-scaled dragon twists menacingly around a blood dipped arrow head. Piercing red eyes glaring at any who walk past its master. The scene almost riveting, drawing you in just to strike you down.

For a second I almost believe the dragon moves, slithering its scaly head my direction but I pass it off as imagination - or whatever the club owner puts in the fog that crawls along the floor.

The owner of the stitched dragon moves, leaning his elbows back on the bar behind him.

I look up and connect our eyes.

Mr. Tatsumi has been working for my father for years, hiding the deaths he triggers and putting the cause of death as accidental.

It's enough for me to want his death on my hands, though it doesn't take much for me to want to kill someone these days.

Not since the experiments he helped hide.

I hum at the thought, and sway froward, taking a seat nearby, keeping one between us.

I lay a palm flat on the bar, ordering a martini from the woman who serves me, smiling gratefully when she turns to make it.

While waiting, I look from the corner of my eye, seeing Draco's eyes still on me and use the opportunity to tilt my head and bring my curtain of red hair to the front of my body, leaving the dragon painted on my back for all to see.