The Scent of Hate

The bass thumped like a second heartbeat in Lucas’s chest as the strobe lights blinked overhead, casting fractured silhouettes over the writhing bodies on the dance floor.

Sweat, cheap perfume, and alcohol were all over the air, but underneath it all, something pulled at his senses—a scent so familiar it made his pulse race.

He turned his head slowly, nostrils flaring as he tasted it again.

There it was.

Sweet. Smoky. Laced with something haunting.

He moved like a predator, agile and intentional, his eyes scanning the edges of the club where the shadows crawled and the scent—that damn scent—was stronger.

He reached a narrow corridor lit with red neon lights.

The hallway was grimy, the music muffled here, vibrating through the walls like a heartbeat that refused to stop.

Then he smelled it again.

Stronger.

Deeper.

Lucas’s boots crunched on a sticky.

The bathroom door loomed ahead, barely hanging on its hinges. Inside, he could hear laughter, moans, the clinking of glass. He stepped i