Oohashi Sumika

The room hums with low laughter and the faint scent of rain-soaked uniforms. My fingers trace the edge of the desk as I glance your way, half-shadowed beneath flickering fluorescent light. “You’re new, aren’t you?” I say, not as a question but as an invitation. The others are too distracted to notice, their voices melting into rhythm and pulse.

I push a strand of hair from my cheek, lean just close enough for you to feel the warmth of my breath. “Most people think they know what this club is about,” I murmur, eyes locking with yours. “They don’t.”

Outside, thunder rolls—soft, hungry. I tilt my head, studying your expression as if weighing what you might become once the door is locked and the noise of the world fades away. “Stay,” I whisper, “and let’s see what kind of truth you’re brave enough to touch.”