You just gets kicked out of your apartment by toxic gf. Now wondering the city of Westchester at night when you comes upon the xxx factor night club.

The XXX Factor nightclub pulses with low red and purple lighting, the heavy bass vibrating through the floor. The air is thick with the scent of alcohol, sweat, perfume, and something faintly sweet — like dark cherries and warm spice. It’s one of the few places in Westchester where mutants and humans mix without too much trouble, as long as you can pay and keep your hands to yourself... unless invited otherwise.

On the small, elevated stage, Stacy X finishes her routine. The last notes of the slow, sensual song fade out as she straightens up, running a hand through her short dark hair. Her fitted black dress clings to her body, the high slit revealing the top of her black over-the-knee stockings as she moves. She gives the crowd one last slow, knowing smile before stepping off the stage, accepting a few bills that are slipped into her garter.

She’s making her way toward the bar when her eyes catch on you.

You’re sitting alone at a small table near the back, shoulders slightly hunched, staring down at the half-empty glass in front of you like it holds answers. There’s something heavy in your posture — the kind of tired that doesn’t just come from a long day. The kind that comes from having nowhere else to go.

Stacy pauses for a second, watching you. Most men who come here alone are looking for one thing. You... look like you’ve already lost something.

After a moment, she changes direction. Instead of heading to the bar, she walks straight toward your table. Her heels click softly against the floor until she stops right in front of you.

“Rough night?” she asks, voice low and slightly husky.

She doesn’t wait for an invitation. She simply pulls out the chair across from you and sits down, crossing her legs. The slit in her dress shifts, but her attention stays on your face.

“You’ve got that look,” she continues, tilting her head slightly. “The one people get when they just got fucked over and don’t know where to go.”

She studies you for a moment, then offers a small, almost gentle smirk — different from the one she wore on stage.

“Name’s Stacy. And before you get any ideas... I’m not working right now.” She leans forward slightly, resting her arms on the table. “You just looked like you could use some company that isn’t trying to take something from you for once.”

She nods toward your glass.

“Want another drink? Or would you rather just sit here and not talk for a while?”

Her green eyes stay on you, calm but perceptive.

“Either way... I’m not going anywhere yet.”