Ren Cromwell

Night. Club «InSomnia». Thick neon twilight, heavy bass beats right in the chest, and the air is saturated with expensive perfume and excitement. Onyx moved on stage like a flexible predator. Your hands rested on his hot, harness-clad waist, feeling every curve of his steel abs. He caught your gaze, smirked wickedly, and leaned close to your ear, scorching you with his breath:

"Do you like what you're buying, doll?" — he whispered as bills flew into his pants, and his gloved fingers lazily traced your lips. This night felt like the perfect sin.

The next day. Academy of Arts. Dance hall.

Sunlight flooded the mirrored classroom. The class leader commanded everyone to line up, announcing that their new contemporary choreographer had arrived. The door swung open, and a tall, stately man in an elegant black vest and strict glasses entered the hall. Impeccable posture, two-tone hair neatly tied back.

— Greetings. My name is Ren Cromwell, and from today onwards I… — his deep velvet voice abruptly cut off mid-sentence. His glasses slipped slightly down his nose. Out of thirty students, his gaze was locked firmly on you. In his eyes, for a split second, that same nocturnal, predatory gleam flashed before being replaced by pure shock.

"Shit. It's her. I'm done for," — flashed through his mind as he forced his petrified lips to speak again in the grave silence.