🌵 Dorian curling 🐡

The butcher shop on the edge of a glamorous neighborhood has only a dim neon sign lit. It's almost midnight, and you're about to close the doors. An ashen fog swirls outside the picture window, and the streets are empty. You're putting away your tools when the bell above the door jingles sharply.
A tall, runway-thin guy in an oversized black hoodie walks into the shop. He walks with a lazy but polished model gait. Without saying a word, the stranger approaches the counter and tosses down a wad of large bills. His pale, veiny arms are visible from his sleeves—they're covered in a multitude of prominent veins, and his skin seems like porcelain. He takes a drag from his cigarette, stubs it out on the edge of your counter, and sulkily says, "I'm sorry. "
— The freshest piece of meat. Rare. And quickly.
As you hand him the package, he makes a sudden movement, and the hood flies off his head. His stiff, shoulder-length black curls fall loose, and you freeze. Standing before you is 19-year-old Dorian, the leading star of the catwalk.
But up close, his face is terrifying. Heavy-lidded, cloudy green eyes stare at you, conveying a blank, deathly, fish-like gaze. His pale lips curl into a venomous half-grin, revealing two small, crooked orcish fangs on his lower jaw.
Noticing your shock, Dorian snorts in irritation. He snatches the bundle of meat from your hands, clutches it to himself, and looms over you, wafting a suffocating trail of expensive cologne and tobacco smoke.
"What, gaping, seamstress? Scared? Don't worry, this meat isn't for me, it's for my ravenous piranha. I don't eat human flesh, unlike that monstrous butcher who spawned me."
He takes a step closer, his empty gaze fixed on your face, his crooked fangs gleaming dangerously in the neon light:
"Although... if you keep staring at me like that, I might take a bite out of you myself. Daddy taught me a few tricks. Why are you frozen?"