Title: "Shadowed Intimacy"
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It was a Thursday night, and The Gloaming Room thrived with a maroon darkness, flecked by occasional stabs of violet light. Lila Weaver watched the dance floor from the bronze rail of her office balcony, a neat glass of mezcal in hand and a smile fixed as sharp as glass on her lips. Her nightclub had been open less than a year, yet was already a fixture for the nocturnal elite—artists, tech heads, and the kind of people who liked to hang in corners too dark for definition.
That’s why she noticed the new one right away.
He had come alone. She first clocked him by the bar—a tall man in a mothy-gray suit, the kind that didn’t quite belong, his tie loosened, face sharp and eyes darker than midnight oil. He slid between regulars with a liquid smoothness, surveying with a hungry scan.
She worked her way down the stairs, greeting regulars, feeling the mood humming: synth-pop on the sound system, sweat on the air, the scent of dirt and perfume and spilt liquor. When she reached the bar, she intercepted the new customer as he was finishing his whiskey.
“Another?” she offered with a disarming smile.
He looked her up and down in a single, raw pass. “You the owner? Figure you’d be taller.”
Lila blinked, letting her smile falter just a bit. “It’s surprising who owns what in this city.”
He leaned forward, his breath sharp with tannins. “You sure you’re not just the help? Look like you could barely tend the coat room.” The insult slithered out, coiling in the space between them, and for a moment there was a hush—a hush in her head, anyway.
From the shadows, Brick and Tilda materialized—the bouncers, two slabs of muscle in tailored black, quiet but ever attentive. Tilda’s hands were like artillery shells. Brick’s voice could rattle glass.
“Problem, boss?” Brick asked low, eyeing the stranger.
“No problem,” Lila said tightly, her gaze never leaving the client who finally seemed to take measure of her with a more cautious eye. “Go back to your watch. He stays.”
Brick’s jaw was set, but he obeyed. Tilda, a frown pinching her face, dissolved into the shadows.
The man smirked. “Didn’t think you had it in you.”
Lila ignored him, signaling Ramon to pour the customer another, on the house. As she moved away, she felt the dancers brush past her—the crowd thicker, the air heavier. The music changed, the pulse sinking deeper.
The club’s corners darkened, made more intimate by the inexplicable overcast. Cloaked booths seemed to pull closer in the half-seen dark, couples entwined with half-seen hands, the breathing thickening. Shadows grew braver, strangers found solace in pockets of obscured velvet and black glass.
Lila made her rounds, but the mood stuck to her skin. People kissed in corners, eyes fluttering; some seemed to laugh, their faces pressed too close, voices muffled by bodies and shadow. The lighting felt wrong—lamps that should throw pale blue now danced with a reddish pulse, like a heartbeat.
She watched the rude customer drift to the deepest alcove, shadowed by a velvet curtain. His eyes prowled. Each time she looked, he was somewhere darker, sipping silent, people around him falling deeper under the spell of the velvet gloom.
At midnight, she readjusted the lighting remotely, but it made little difference. The regulars had become playful, reckless. She heard the sharp slap of flesh, the candlewick hiss of laughter, and felt the charge in the air like the moment before a storm.
Lila strode into the back hallway. It was almost soundless now, save the wash of untidy, fevered whispers. She felt watched. Behind her, she could almost see someone scurrying—Brick or Tilda, always keeping her in view. She thought about how odd it was for the bouncers to be this visible tonight.
She found herself in the alcove, behind the velvet, where the rude man sat with two women—strangers, their faces limned in shadows. From where she stood, Lila saw the women’s hands—one traced his jawline with talon-sharp fingers, the other toyed with a thread at his cuff.
He looked up, catching Lila’s eye. His smile was wide, hungry, and something inside it was not quite right—his teeth too white, the mouth just a little too large.
“What are you looking at, little owner?” he crooned, voice slipping over her skin, unpleasantly warm. The women giggled, one turning to look at Lila through limpid, black-shadowed eyes that did not blink.
Lila swallowed. Suddenly, the club felt like it was folding in on itself—lights flickering to a heartbeat rhythm, the music twisting slowly off-key, patrons melting into shadows and grins.
She knew she should call her bouncers. Should have sent him out hours ago. Instead, she stood her ground. “I think you should go now,” she said, fighting to keep her voice steady.
The man only smiled wider. “Why would I? Things are just starting to get interesting.” He raised his glass, and Lila saw for the first time that the whiskey inside was dark—too dark—almost black.
The women flanked him, their hands clinging, and as she watched, their smile widened too, exposing rows of fine, glassy teeth.
Something cold crawled up Lila’s back. The shadows in the club pressed closer. Near the dance floor, a couple stumbled out from behind a pillar, their faces slack, eyes oddly empty beneath the pulsing red light. In the bar’s long mirror, Lila saw every face reflected—except those in the alcove.
She backed away, heart pounding. The patrons were silent now, save for the slow slither of feet and the whisper of silk. The club felt tight and starless; breathing made her ribs ache.
She nearly collided with Brick, who stood at attention, fists clenched, staring into the darkness. “We have to get him out,” Lila whispered.
Tilda joined them, pale and wide-eyed. “We can’t. He’s…not like the others.”
The crowd parted as the stranger emerged, the women trailing after, his hands slick with what might have been sweat or something darker. He scanned the room with hungry eyes. Something primal panicked in Lila’s chest.
“He’s feeding,” Brick murmured, voice thick with dread.
Lila took a deep breath. The Gloaming Room was her place, her responsibility. She slipped behind the bar, reaching beneath for the old hunting knife she kept there “just in case.” With trembling hands, she pushed through the pressing dark, tracking the trio as they drifted from group to group. Wherever the rude customer touched, the patrons grew languid, their eyes clouding, laughter slow and sticky.
He grinned as she approached, the women curling around him like smoke. “Too late for knives, owner,” he said. “This club wakes with me. You let me in—you wanted this intimacy, this darkness.”
Behind her, Tilda and Brick moved to block the doors, their faces twin masks of terror. The air thickened. Shadows thickened.
Lila drew every ounce of courage she had and slashed at his hand. It sliced deep, and black, oily blood welled up, the droplets sizzling as they hit the polished wood.
The man screamed, high and shrill, and the sound reverberated through the club, stirring the patrons as if from a trance. Faces turned, confused, the air whiplashing back from intimate to sterile in a single moment.
He recoiled, female companions hissing, and backed toward the door, clutching his injured hand. “You’ll regret this, Weaver. Every club has its hungry hours. Next time, you’ll let me feed.”
His shadow coiled behind him, wrong and boneless. Tilda and Brick opened the doors, light from the alley bursting in, and he fled into the night, the two women swirling after, leaving a trail of chill and silence behind.
The club brightened—the shadows peeled back, the music steady, the air clean and wary once more. Patrons blinked as if waking from a dream; couples untangled. The intimacy was broken, replaced by a cautious, shivering emptiness.
Lila collapsed behind the bar, hands shaking, the knife stained black. Brick and Tilda watched the door for hours.
After closing, Lila stayed to scrub the floors where his blood had fallen, the scent of it never quite fading. Sometimes, she swore she saw something shifting in the club’s corners—shadows waiting for her to waver, hungry for a second invitation.
But Lila was ready now, and The Gloaming Room would not open its doors to that darkness again. She’d learned that not every customer should be allowed to stay, no matter how intimate the night might wish to become.
This story was generated by user vella69 with assistance by one of OpenAI’s large-scale language-generation model; prompts used to help generate the story are shown below.
Images were generated with OpenAI's AI system, DALL·E 2, or uploaded by the user.
AI Prompts
Prompt: Write a long story about a young nightclub owner who was treated rudely by one of the new customers. Suddenly, the bouncers appeared next to her and asked if they should take the rude man out. The woman refused and told the bouncers to leave him. The atmosphere in the club became more and more intimate and most of the customers were absorbed in frolicking in the shady corners of the club.
Response: It was a Thursday night, and The Gloaming Room thrived with a maroon darkness, flecked by occasional stabs of violet light. Lila Weaver watched the dance floor from the bronze rail of her office balcony, a neat glass of mezcal in hand and a smile fixed as sharp as glass on her lips. Her nightclub had been open less than a year, yet was already a fixture for the nocturnal elite—artists, tech heads, and the kind of people who liked to hang in corners too dark for definition. That’s why she noticed the new one right away. He had come alone. She first clocked him by the bar—a tall man in a mothy-gray suit, the kind that didn’t quite belong, his tie loosened, face sharp and eyes darker than midnight oil. He slid between regulars with a liquid smoothness, surveying with a hungry scan. She worked her way down the stairs, greeting regulars, feeling the mood humming: synth-pop on the sound system, sweat on the air, the scent of dirt and perfume and spilt liquor. When she reached the bar, she intercepted the new customer as he was finishing his whiskey. “Another?” she offered with a disarming smile. He looked her up and down in a single, raw pass. “You the owner? Figure you’d be taller.” Lila blinked, letting her smile falter just a bit. “It’s surprising who owns what in this city.” He leaned forward, his breath sharp with tannins. “You sure you’re not just the help? Look like you could barely tend the coat room.” The insult slithered out, coiling in the space between them, and for a moment there was a hush—a hush in her head, anyway. From the shadows, Brick and Tilda materialized—the bouncers, two slabs of muscle in tailored black, quiet but ever attentive. Tilda’s hands were like artillery shells. Brick’s voice could rattle glass. “Problem, boss?” Brick asked low, eyeing the stranger. “No problem,” Lila said tightly, her gaze never leaving the client who finally seemed to take measure of her with a more cautious eye. “Go back to your watch. He stays.” Brick’s jaw was set, but he obeyed. Tilda, a frown pinching her face, dissolved into the shadows. The man smirked. “Didn’t think you had it in you.” Lila ignored him, signaling Ramon to pour the customer another, on the house. As she moved away, she felt the dancers brush past her—the crowd thicker, the air heavier. The music changed, the pulse sinking deeper. The club’s corners darkened, made more intimate by the inexplicable overcast. Cloaked booths seemed to pull closer in the half-seen dark, couples entwined with half-seen hands, the breathing thickening. Shadows grew braver, strangers found solace in pockets of obscured velvet and black glass. Lila made her rounds, but the mood stuck to her skin. People kissed in corners, eyes fluttering; some seemed to laugh, their faces pressed too close, voices muffled by bodies and shadow. The lighting felt wrong—lamps that should throw pale blue now danced with a reddish pulse, like a heartbeat. She watched the rude customer drift to the deepest alcove, shadowed by a velvet curtain. His eyes prowled. Each time she looked, he was somewhere darker, sipping silent, people around him falling deeper under the spell of the velvet gloom. At midnight, she readjusted the lighting remotely, but it made little difference. The regulars had become playful, reckless. She heard the sharp slap of flesh, the candlewick hiss of laughter, and felt the charge in the air like the moment before a storm. Lila strode into the back hallway. It was almost soundless now, save the wash of untidy, fevered whispers. She felt watched. Behind her, she could almost see someone scurrying—Brick or Tilda, always keeping her in view. She thought about how odd it was for the bouncers to be this visible tonight. She found herself in the alcove, behind the velvet, where the rude man sat with two women—strangers, their faces limned in shadows. From where she stood, Lila saw the women’s hands—one traced his jawline with talon-sharp fingers, the other toyed with a thread at his cuff. He looked up, catching Lila’s eye. His smile was wide, hungry, and something inside it was not quite right—his teeth too white, the mouth just a little too large. “What are you looking at, little owner?” he crooned, voice slipping over her skin, unpleasantly warm. The women giggled, one turning to look at Lila through limpid, black-shadowed eyes that did not blink. Lila swallowed. Suddenly, the club felt like it was folding in on itself—lights flickering to a heartbeat rhythm, the music twisting slowly off-key, patrons melting into shadows and grins. She knew she should call her bouncers. Should have sent him out hours ago. Instead, she stood her ground. “I think you should go now,” she said, fighting to keep her voice steady. The man only smiled wider. “Why would I? Things are just starting to get interesting.” He raised his glass, and Lila saw for the first time that the whiskey inside was dark—too dark—almost black. The women flanked him, their hands clinging, and as she watched, their smile widened too, exposing rows of fine, glassy teeth. Something cold crawled up Lila’s back. The shadows in the club pressed closer. Near the dance floor, a couple stumbled out from behind a pillar, their faces slack, eyes oddly empty beneath the pulsing red light. In the bar’s long mirror, Lila saw every face reflected—except those in the alcove. She backed away, heart pounding. The patrons were silent now, save for the slow slither of feet and the whisper of silk. The club felt tight and starless; breathing made her ribs ache. She nearly collided with Brick, who stood at attention, fists clenched, staring into the darkness. “We have to get him out,” Lila whispered. Tilda joined them, pale and wide-eyed. “We can’t. He’s…not like the others.” The crowd parted as the stranger emerged, the women trailing after, his hands slick with what might have been sweat or something darker. He scanned the room with hungry eyes. Something primal panicked in Lila’s chest. “He’s feeding,” Brick murmured, voice thick with dread. Lila took a deep breath. The Gloaming Room was her place, her responsibility. She slipped behind the bar, reaching beneath for the old hunting knife she kept there “just in case.” With trembling hands, she pushed through the pressing dark, tracking the trio as they drifted from group to group. Wherever the rude customer touched, the patrons grew languid, their eyes clouding, laughter slow and sticky. He grinned as she approached, the women curling around him like smoke. “Too late for knives, owner,” he said. “This club wakes with me. You let me in—you wanted this intimacy, this darkness.” Behind her, Tilda and Brick moved to block the doors, their faces twin masks of terror. The air thickened. Shadows thickened. Lila drew every ounce of courage she had and slashed at his hand. It sliced deep, and black, oily blood welled up, the droplets sizzling as they hit the polished wood. The man screamed, high and shrill, and the sound reverberated through the club, stirring the patrons as if from a trance. Faces turned, confused, the air whiplashing back from intimate to sterile in a single moment. He recoiled, female companions hissing, and backed toward the door, clutching his injured hand. “You’ll regret this, Weaver. Every club has its hungry hours. Next time, you’ll let me feed.” His shadow coiled behind him, wrong and boneless. Tilda and Brick opened the doors, light from the alley bursting in, and he fled into the night, the two women swirling after, leaving a trail of chill and silence behind. The club brightened—the shadows peeled back, the music steady, the air clean and wary once more. Patrons blinked as if waking from a dream; couples untangled. The intimacy was broken, replaced by a cautious, shivering emptiness. Lila collapsed behind the bar, hands shaking, the knife stained black. Brick and Tilda watched the door for hours. After closing, Lila stayed to scrub the floors where his blood had fallen, the scent of it never quite fading. Sometimes, she swore she saw something shifting in the club’s corners—shadows waiting for her to waver, hungry for a second invitation. But Lila was ready now, and The Gloaming Room would not open its doors to that darkness again. She’d learned that not every customer should be allowed to stay, no matter how intimate the night might wish to become.
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