The music filled the air like audible napalm. Lasers fired in neon rainbows, floodlights swept across the floor, and strobes pulsed with frenetic abandon like visual klaxons. Every beat shook the basement, every fill shuddered the air, and every high note raised the hairs on the backs of necks. A riot of revellers swelled and pulsed on the dance floor, their cries of excitement blending with the all-encompassing tunes into a vibrant emulsion of chaos.

She leaned against a wall to one side of the gent's toilets, playing idly with a lock of black hair extension, attention focused on the shifting morass of humanity. It was 3am, early Saturday morning in the heart of Leicester Square. Between dancing, alcohol, excitement and sweat, the hardcore partygoers would now be in that place where emotions override the body, where fatigue sets in like an aging sloth in the back-brain. They were having the times of their lives and simultaneously leaving themselves at their most vulnerable.

He is here somewhere. It's only a matter of time.

"Yes," she said, feeling a flush tickle her cheeks. A man heading into the toilets did a double take when she spoke, his gaze lingering. She scowled until he shrugged and continued on his way.

Bonus mark?

"No. Be quiet." She twisted some hair into a tight curl and ran it between her lips. It tasted of chemicals, and the cords were too springy. It might look the part, but close inspection revealed its trickery. Next time, she would pay the extra for real hair.

Pay attention!

She sucked the hair dry and tossed it over a shoulder. "Hush. I have this." Too much distraction. She closed her eyes, feeling false lashes scrape together like a Venus Fly Trap. Darkness calmed the thoughts and she let the rhythmic thunder of trance music wash over her. Only in the centre of her black calm did she realise a bole of panic was forming in her stomach. Taking a deep breath, she smiled and hummed gently, feeling it dissipate in her spent breath. In the midst of anarchy, she was coolness personified. Such was the mind of one committed.

Moments later, she opened her eyes to the nightclub's display once more. Letting her gaze wander across the thrashing crowd, she brought to mind the features she was looking for: Brown eyes with subtle crow's feet, a blond crew cut, and the early morning remnants of a perfectly tailored suit. Within a minute, a shape caught her attention. The face bobbed in and out of view, turning so she got profile, front and back in quick succession. He was moving with enthusiasm but little skill -- a fish out of water but thoroughly soaked in booze.

Investigate!

She flicked her head to dispel the tick in one eye. "What do you think I'm doing?" Detaching from the wall, she slunk into the fray before her, flitting between beams of coloured light until the crowd shrouded her form. Black leggings, stretch top and plimsolls helped her catch attention when needed and avoid it the rest of the time. She was a cat in the night, prowling with intent, and this den of drunkenness and delight was her playground.

She let the music mould her movements, swaying and turning, jolting and jumping, migrating steadily through the throng to her intended. As he gyrated into view, there was no doubt. The suit trousers worked for him even as he danced, fitted expertly to his form. Shiny shoes glinted like precious metal, reflecting the ever-changing lights. His shirt was unbuttoned to mid chest, tie hanging loosely akimbo. He was thirty one years old, her research told her -- very young for his position -- and probably distinctly attractive, but such was not her concern.

Sliding into a space behind him, she matched his movements, letting him to lead the motion. Occasionally, she allowed a breast to graze his back or arm as he moved, and enjoyed watching the tension ripple through him each time it happened. She let warm breaths slip across the back of his neck. Before long, he couldn't resist turning, running a look from her toes to her undulating false hair.

As their gazes met, she cocked her head to indicate the quieter space she'd been lurking in. Something shone in his irises -- an inebriated mixture of excitement, abandon and raw, primal lust. She grasped his hand and threaded a route through the crown to the wall. Next to the entrance to the toilets, she twined her arms around his neck, locking wrists behind his head, and breathed out a well-practiced giggle.

Strong hands grasped at her hips, then travelled confidently to her backside. He squeezed, pulling her against him, dragging them into a tight clutch. Their noses bumped as breath intermingled and she swept her lips fleetingly against his. He was hard against her, the pressure of his erection pressing beneath her tummy. On another day, in another place, this would be a heady delight.

He bent his head and kissed eagerly at the side of her neck, grazing teeth gently across her skin, his tongue flicking against the curve on the cusp of her shoulder. She unhooked one arm to give the toilet door a good shove, then all but tripped him through the doorway. They tumbled into a room of urinals and cubicles, staggered against an unlocked door, and crashed against the toilet beyond. With a deft flick, she threw the bolt behind them as she pushed him to a sitting position and straddled his lap.

Lips finally engaged as their breaths echoed, urgent gasps in the enclosed space. His hands surrounded the small of her back, pulling her into him, grinding his hard bulge against the soft shape of her leggings. She curled her tongue into his mouth, finding his own so they danced in a sensuous rhythm.

Extending an arm out behind her, she shook it until the slender needle she kept there slid from her sleeve. A foot long and sharpened to the point of insanity, it lived alongside her forearm, blunt end formed into a flattened ball for grip. She moaned into his mouth and pulsed her lips against his, grinding their chests and laps together.

Then she whipped the needle behind his head, and slid it upwards through the back of his neck.

He stiffened like a board as the needle's point found the gap between two vertebrae, puncturing the disc and scraping through muscle into the back of his windpipe. He snorted, spattering blood across their faces as she continued to kiss him. A flat moan wheezed in his throat as the point grazed his Adam's apple on its way into his lower jaw. She slipped her tongue to one side as his was pinioned, then stapled to the roof of his mouth by the metal's passage. The needle exited to one side of his nose, distending a nostril, and finished an inch or two from his face when her balled fist met the nape of his neck.

Her tongue caressed the metal spike, sending a groin-deep tingle through her frame. He shuddered against her, convulsing as he spent his last, and she breathed in a lungful of his beer-textured air. She yanked the needle sideways, ratcheting it through his neck, and he flopped against the cistern, lifeless in her embrace. This was the place where life mattered - suspended in a soup of heady delight and deadly consequence. This was where she truly lived.

This is MY world.

This ... was her world.