We all saw him.

And none of us will forget.

He’s not like the others. He didn’t come to play.

He came because he understood.

And honestly?

He’ll fit right in.

I let the thoughts slip from my mind as I step into the Screaming Tent. The crowd is different now—raw, feral, twitchy with whatever’s left of their laced drinks and post-collapse hysteria. Everyone’s shaken. Everyone’s buzzing. Everyone wants to feel something.

Perfect.

I stalk onto the center platform like I own the godsdamn place, hips swaying, bones in my hair clicking together like laughing teeth. I’m barefoot, drenched in dried blood, painted in ash and red runes that shimmer under the torchlight. Leather straps hug what little flesh I’ve left untouched. The rest? Marked. Bitten. Claimed.

My spine cracks as I drop into a backbend mid-stride, stretching slowly and obscenely while I drag the violet wand across my ribs. It crackles to life with a hiss and a spark—pure static seduction—and the sound alone earns me a collective moan from the pit.

Gods, I love this thing.

Little wand of wickedness, gifted to me years ago by some poor bastard who thought pain was something to flinch from. He’s mulch now—buried under the bones behind the blood bar—but his toy? Oh, it lives on.

It’s not magic, not really. It’s science dressed in latex and bad intentions. A wand tipped in glass, arcing violet current with every swipe. Electricity that kisses the skin like fire and leaves your nerves screaming thank you.

Hurts so good. Hurts so pretty.

I named it Darling. Because that’s what everyone says when I press it between their legs.

“Darling, please⁠—”

“Darling, I can’t⁠—”

“Darling, again⁠—”

And me? I just giggle and crank the voltage.

Because pain is foreplay in this tent, and I’m the one holding the whip and the wand.

Let them ache for it.

“Blood. Bones. Boobs,” I mutter under my breath, smiling wide enough to split the world. “It’s showtime, bitches.”

To my left, a guest is crying—begging someone dressed like a bear for forgiveness. To my right, a masked woman with painted teeth is being worshipped by three men on their knees. Someone screams from behind a rusted cage. The scent of sweat, sex, and smoldering canvas clings to every breath.

And in the middle of it all?

Me.

Giselle.

The girl your nightmares cross their legs for.

I climb the frame, slowly and deliberately, my limbs bending like water, back arching until I’m upside down above the crowd. Below, hands reach. Tongues wag. Eyes dilate. Everyone wants something from me.

But I don’t play favorites.

I drop into a split, legs open wide above a circle of writhing guests and let the wand dance between my thighs—crackling against my skin, lighting me up from the inside out.