#int:z

Inside the venue is packed body to body. Drinks in hand don’t stay full for long. Voices lost on deaf ears; faces mixing and melding together from the intoxicating mix of alcohol, drugs, and euphoria. It’s a stereotypical scene for a Saturday night. That is...until a demon joins the mix.

The ladies room is nearly always full in clubs like this. Girls either peeing, puking or powdering their noses. Some crying to others about seeing so and so with so and so, this ex with that. Calling dibs and negotiations on who’s going home with whom. A large group makes their exit back into the fray, leaving a lone girl at the sink, staring at her reflection in the massive mirror with bleary eyes. She’s too drunk to stay much longer and too drunk to care. She tries to mop up the running makeup under her eyes but movement in the reflection distracts her.

There’s a man walking toward her. If you could call him that; a man. He’s a guy, like any other she’d see in a place like this. Tattered light-wash jeans, a black hoodie, wild bleached hair, and sunglasses. She can’t tell where he’s looking with those dark shades covering his eyes and her eyes linger on his fat bottom lip for a bit too long before turning around. “This is the ladies room, asshole. You can’t be in here!” she decrees, placing a hand on her hip for emphasis on her words and potentially the appeal of her tight dress-clad body.

But the only thing she’s successfully scolded is the tampon dispenser on the wall behind her. There is no man or guy or whatever he is. She whips her head around to the mirror again, confused and unwilling to believe her eyes had betrayed her. She gasps, scream lodged in her throat. He’s right there. Right in front of her eyes but not beside her. She’s frozen, terrified and in complete disbelief when he proceeds to reach through the mirror.

He rests a hand on the mirror’s frame and kicks one leg up and then the other, stepping out of the massive piece of glass as if it were a window, not a mirror and hopping off the counter in a series of swift movements. He turns to regard her and then his own reflection, now seemingly normal as could be. He pulls off his shades, revealing black feline-shaped eyes and dark brows that rise, mocking the disbelief and shock still contorting her features.

“Your mother hasn’t taught you it’s impolite to stare?” he drawls, amusement licking at the corner of his lips. Humans are much too fun to play with. He turns to leave, catching the door as it’s pushed open by the next throng of girls. He receives their looks of surprise that border on disapproval and intrigue, pushing their opinions toward the latter with an artfully mischievous smirk. “Hey, that girl at the sink is seriously fucked up. Someone should probably call her a cab,” Zicovian lies, forked-tongue-in-cheek and disappears into the crowd as suddenly as he’d arrived.