Ember 21, 2999 – Friday | 6:20 PM
Duskhaven Guard Station | South Precinct, Inner Edge
The holding bay reeked of antiseptic, sweat, and regret.
Officer Alke stood tall beside the open med-bay doors as two bruised bodies were rolled in on floating stretchers—one centaur barely conscious, the other a superhuman wheezing through cracked ribs and a swollen jaw.
Shiro hadn't killed them. But he hadn't been gentle either.
The medtech, a dwarf with buzzed hair and glowing gloves, winced as he scanned the centaur's spine. "You wanna know what slammed him this hard, I need a different kind of scanner."
Alke didn't respond. She stepped over to the superhuman, still groaning, and knelt beside the side table with his belongings. His cloak. His busted bracer. A cracked visor with scan runes. And—most importantly—his phone.
Unmarked.
Encrypted.
But not immune to her override codes.
She plugged a thin wand into the port, fingers gliding across her interface glove.
Nothing.
Then—ping.
She tapped into the recent activity.
And there it was.
A photo of Shiro.
Gold fangs, wild white dreads, faint red eyes.
Attached was a soft bounty mark—not through the Guard, but blacklisted. Off-record. Listed only through a private underground network of contracts flagged as "Retrieval Preferred – Black Choir Classification."
Her eyes narrowed. "The hell…"
She scrolled through the metadata.
No official bounty house linked.
No judge's order.
No sanctioned charges.
But encrypted coordinates. Payment nodes. And an anonymous sigil at the bottom of the screen—one she'd only seen twice before on bodies tied to the Black Choir.
She stood.
Turned back to the suspect.
"You tried to collect the bag on his head?" she asked, voice flat.
The superhuman didn't look up.
The centaur grunted, bloodied. "Don't know what you're talkin' about."
Alke stepped closer. Her hand dropped to the baton at her hip.
"Mm-hm."
No answer.
Just silence.
The kind built from fear. And contracts deeper than blood.
She didn't press further. Not yet.
She logged the data, sealed the phones into evidence, and walked out of the med-bay with long, purposeful strides.
⸻
Duskhaven Guard South Precinct – Intel Room
The walls were lined with old reports, holo-photos, burnt parchments, and flickering thread-lines that mapped out the movements of a dozen syndicates.
In the center of it all?
The board.
The one reserved for cases tied to the Black Choir.
Alke slapped a new image into the corner.
Shiro's face.
Just a snapshot from the stolen phone. Gold fangs. That devilish smile.
A post-it materialized beside it—auto-tagged by her interface with a red query:
RELEVANCE TO CHOIR?
Target or threat?
She folded her arms.
"Why the hell are they chasing you, Shiro Connelly?"
No answer.
Only the quiet hum of the holo-map behind her, glowing faintly red… as if the board itself already knew the answer.
⸻
Meanwhile…
Duskhaven – Inner Ring | 7:00 PM
Shiro moved like a man in no rush—but everything about him said Beast. His bag of NSFW goodies hung from one shoulder. His dreadlocks bounced with each casual stride. A fresh-cut bite mark still peeked over his collarbone.
The heat of the city couldn't touch him.
He made his way back toward Lena's mansion as the sky began its descent into dusk—red light painting the skyline.
A few beastfolk maidens along the wall outside gasped quietly as he passed. A young vampire courier tripped over her own delivery box watching Shiro adjust his belt.
Shiro just grinned. "Evenin'."
He entered through the side gate.
Back to the den.
Back to where the real heat waited.
Because tonight?
That red moon was rising.
And Shiro had things to unwrap.
Ember 21, 2999 – Friday | 7:20 PM
Lena Cordash's Mansion – Duskhaven Inner Ring
The red moon had risen—fat, low, and pulsing over Duskhaven like a voyeur god.
Shiro stepped into the mansion through the side entrance, his robe slung low, NSFW boutique bag in hand. The scent of spiced oils, faint incense, and woman lingered in the halls.
The moment he crossed the foyer, his comm buzzed.
Lena: "Upstairs. East Wing. Don't bring shame—bring the bag."
His grin stretched slow.
Red candles flickered to life along the walls as if summoned by heat alone. The house reacted.
He passed two beastfolk maids dusting a sculpture—both froze mid-movement as he glided by, shirtless and smug, the contents of the bag slightly shifting with every step.
He heard Lena's voice next. It echoed from the lounge—not from volume, but from command.
"Girls. Dorms. Now."
The sound was smooth. Regal. Icy.
"Anyone caught lurkin' gets swept up. And I don't mean by chores."
The maids squeaked. One fumbled her rag. Another darted off.
But one didn't.
A single kitsune maid—ears perked, tail twitching—was too slow. Or too curious.
By the time she realized what was happening, Shiro was already turning the corner.
He met Lena in the grand lounge. The lights dimmed. Then—clicked to deep red.
Silk sheets covered every cushion. Incense smoke curled like fingers. Smooth R&B poured from enchanted speakers—low bass, honey-warm vocals, the rhythm of hips.
Zarrah was already stripped to her lace. Her horns shimmered under the crimson glow. Grakka lounged in a loose black top, muscles still glistening from oil. Lena, barefoot, had already discarded her robe—her platinum hair tied up, her lips painted in wine-black gloss.
Shiro dropped the bag on the table.
Lena opened it. Her fingers brushed over the silk cuffs, the rune rope, the collar etched in Infernal.
"You remembered."
"I remembered everything," Shiro purred.
She held up the collar—Mine.
Zarrah swallowed. Grakka cracked her neck.
The air changed.
Shiro stepped forward—and the moment he kissed Lena, the room tipped.
Lena snapped her fingers.
The door sealed.
The speakers flared louder. The runes in the room pulsed like a second heart.
Lena whispered, "He's all yours… but I'm not sharing softly."
Grakka grabbed Shiro's hair, pulled his head back, kissed him like a conqueror. Zarrah was already on her knees, licking his abs as her hands wandered.
And in the corner… the kitsune maid, frozen, caught behind the door she hadn't escaped in time.
Her mouth parted. Her knees trembled.
She should've left. She caught like a deer in headlights.
She watched.
Then… her hand slipped under her skirt.
Zarrah noticed first. Her eyes, already glazed with lust, locked onto the kitsune's trembling tail.
She smirked. "Looks like we got a lil' fox stuck in the storm…"
Grakka looked back. "Lena?"
Lena turned to the maid, eyes glowing faintly. "Door warned you."
Shiro just chuckled. "Let her stay."
Lena's voice lowered like velvet across a blade. "She will."
Zarrah rose to her feet, grabbed the maid by the chin, and whispered, "You wanted heat, oui? Welcome to the fire."
She pulled her into the fold.
⸻
The room became a furnace of sin.
Lena rode Shiro with her head tossed back, lips parted in moans like royal commands. Zarrah straddled the kitsune, grinding slow while whispering in French—teaching her how to move. Grakka pinned them both with raw strength, switching between mouths, laughter rumbling like thunder.
Shiro took them all in his arms, one at a time, then together—fingers exploring, fangs biting, voice low and cruel with praise.
"You like that, don't you?" he growled into the kitsune's ear as her mind broke from her fourth orgasm, her tail curled tight. "You wanted to serve. Now you serve."
The music slowed. The candles burned low.
And when the night finally broke them all, sweat-soaked and trembling in a tangle of limbs and stolen breaths…
Shiro pulled the kitsune against his chest and said, "Next time, don't knock. Just crawl in."
"I will"
The girls laughed—exhausted, wrecked, radiant.
The red moon pulsed one final time above the mansion…
And the true storm was only beginning.