3. Stealth Mode, Slut Mode

May 30, 2025

The pool glittered beneath the moonlight — artificial and lifeless. Like most of their guests.

Silas leaned against a marble pillar, swirling his drink, watching mortals and immortals alike try to out-network each other. His exquisite shirt was half-unbuttoned, covered in flowers and wisps, exposing a collarbone that had inspired at least three tragic poems over the centuries.

“I give it an hour before someone drowns and we have to send another gift basket.” he murmured.

"If we're lucky," Rufus said, appearing at his side with two glasses of something suspiciously red in hand,"they'll film it this time. Free marketing."

Silas took the glass and snorted, despite himself. Dark, bitter, ancient.

"Nothing says transformation," Rufus added, "like death at an exclusive launch party."

"Bet you ten grand it's the guy pitching 'Crypto for Pets'," Rufus said, raising a glass in mock admiration.

Silas looked at his drink and raised an eyebrow. "Is that…?"

“Beetroot blood wine, exclusive dealer from a haunted vineyard in Portugal,” Rufus purred, all teeth and sin. “Imported. Ethical. Pretentious as hell. Irresistible, too, just like me.”

His wink was slow, shameless, and designed to ruin someone’s night.

Somewhere across the pool, a woman in a gold bikini shrieked with laughter as a minor tech founder — wearing a $4,000 hoodie saying ‘Hustle’ in sad, basic sans-serif — cannonballed into the deep end.

Silas sighed. "We should say something about the product."

Rufus raised his glass. "We are. Nothing says innovation like drunk, naked mortals bobbing in a pool."

"No, something real."

Rufus grinned. "Reality is out of scope, darling. We're in stealth mode."

"You don't even know what we're building, do you?" Silas asked.

Rufus shrugged, watching the crowd.
"Whatever they want us to. They don’t know what they are buying either, and they don’t care."

Silas rolled his eyes, but Rufus was already slipping away, moving through the party like a shark in his Gucci loafers ready to prove a point to a school of clownfish.

When he reached the microphone stand and tapped it once, the sound popped like a cork fired across the room. Several guests flinched, then laughed too loudly to cover it, fidgeting nervously in their silk tracksuits.

The crowd hushed, turning toward him, their glassy eyes full of hunger.

Rufus smiled, baring just the faintest flash of fang — as he always did when he smelled blood, fear, or opportunity.

“Ladies. Gentlemen. Monsters of all persuasions,” Rufus purred into the mic, his wild blonde spikes crackling in the wind, catching the light like a lit fuse about to burn everything down.

He spread his arms wide, drinking in the applause like a wannabe rockstar at a pool party gig.

Which, Silas thought grimly, wasn’t even an exaggeration.

Rufus had actually done exactly that — Ibiza, 1997, some mortal band too coked-out to notice their singer was snacking on the bassist. It had taken Silas three bribes and one very expensive yacht to make it go away.

Silas trusted him, like he always did.
Even when he shouldn't.

Rufus tapped the microphone again, slower this time, fingers dragging down the stand like a promise he wasn’t going to keep.

"Tonight," he said, voice low and wicked,
"we celebrate the future."

He posed, leaning the mic stand to one side and pointing into the crowd.

Rufus always looked like he’d gotten dressed in a hurricane — distressed vegan leather bomber, a vintage band tee he’d stolen in 1980, ripped jeans that cost more than the average house, and rings he’d “liberated” from an antiques dealer last century.

A wave of excitement swept the crowd.

A bespoke champagne flute, crafted by a long-dead artist, slipped from sweaty fingers and exploded against the floor — unnoticed. Unimportant.

"Our company," Rufus continued — still refusing to name it —
"is pioneering a radical new approach to transformation."

Silas leaned his head back against the pillar, watching the trainwreck happen with the kind of resigned awe reserved for natural disasters and Rufus with a microphone.

He was definitely requesting more of Jeff’s vintage next time Rufus insisted on a pool party.

An oversight. Easily corrected.

Jeff was still alive. For now.

As long as he kept eating those imported Italian blueberries that gave his blood that signature tang.

Silas really ought to get that intern on speed dial for occasions like this.

"In a world plagued by static identities," Rufus said, sliding his hand down the mic stand in a way that would have gotten him banned from network television,
"we believe evolution should be... on demand."

A gasp from someone in designer leather.
Several nods from influencers who had no idea what he was talking about but were visibly aroused anyway.

Silas swore, quietly, at no one.

Only Rufus could make improvising a startup in real time seem so indecent and delicious.

"Our platform," Rufus purred, lips brushing the microphone like it was a secret he wasn’t supposed to tell,

"will empower you to transcend outdated norms.
To adapt.
To thrive.
To become whoever — or whatever — the moment demands."

Someone clapped.
Then another.
The applause spread, desperate, viral, like a rash.

Rufus bowed low, with a wicked, knowing smile, like he’d just ruined the whole room and was already bored of it.

"Welcome," he said, voice dripping,
"to the next phase of existence."

Then — slow, deliberate — he licked the microphone.

The crowd erupted.

Behind the pillar, Silas finished his drink in one long, miserable gulp.

Then, without breaking stride, he tossed the empty glass into the pool, where it bobbed like a tiny, expensive corpse. People were so easy. Rufus could play them like a lute, drunk and out of tune, and they'd still throw roses at his feet.

Rufus caught Silas's eye across the pool.
He raised his glass and flashed that lazy, lethal smile, all fang and promise.

Silas just shook his head, biting down a smile he’d never admit to and unable to mockingly raise a toast with the glass he just threw away.

Winning looked so good on him — especially in those tight, tight black jeans.

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