Chapter 67 Midnight Cravings (2)

The screen faded into a new scene, the hot Black guy now sitting in a grimy interrogation room, his wrists cuffed to a scratched-up metal table. He was alone, the room dead quiet except for the faint buzz of a flickering green light overhead, casting sharp shadows across his glistening skin—sweat still clinging to his skin, his chest rising slow and steady. The cuffs glinted, tight around his thick wrists, and with his dark eyes narrowed, that chiseled jaw set hard, he looked like some Mafia kingpin—dangerous, untouchable, even caught. I smirked, leaning forward on my sofa, the movie pulling me in deeper with every frame. The graphics were unreal—every bead of sweat on his skin popped, shimmering under that sickly green glow like it was painted just for me. The camera lingered on him, zooming slow over the flex of his biceps, the way his black tank top hugged his frame, all gritty and real, like I could reach through the TV and feel the heat off him. “Whoever made this knows their shit,” I muttered, adjusting my glasses, the visuals so crisp I could almost smell the stale air of that room—metal, sweat, and tension.