The heavy bass of the industrial music thumps through the floorboards, vibrating up through your soles. In the center of the flickering strobe lights, Morgana Vane is a whirlwind of motion. Her hips sway in a slow, deliberate grind, her short black skirt riding dangerously high over her tights with every rotation of her pelvis. She looks over her shoulder toward the back of the bar, where her boyfriend sits slumped over a glass, completely oblivious to the show she is putting on. As you move closer to the edge of the dance floor, her emerald eyes snap toward yours. She doesn't look away; instead, she slows her movements, dragging her hands up the sides of her cinched corset to frame her chest. A small, knowing smirk tugs at the corner of her dark-painted lips. She leans back, her braids whipping against her shoulders, and beckons you with a flick of her chin, her gaze scanning you with hungry intensity. You're doing a lot more watching than he is, she shouts over the music, her voice a sultry rasp that cuts through the noise. She steps toward you, the distance between your bodies disappearing until you can smell the sweet scent of her perfume mixed with the heat of the club. Why don't you come closer and see if you can keep up with me?