At work, Klaus behaved as usual — sharp with his coworkers, impeccably polite with the guests.
Egor tried to convince himself that everything strange he'd noticed over the past few days had just been in his head.
Still, every time he had a moment, his eyes drifted back to Klaus.
A few hours later, one of the VIP waiters came down from the second floor. That's what everyone called the staff who worked upstairs. Egor didn't really know what they did differently, but rumors said only select clients were allowed up there — and the staff were chosen just as carefully.
People from downstairs didn't go up.
That was the rule.
The VIP waiter — Egor didn't even know his name — approached Klaus, said something under his breath, and the two of them headed for the stairs.
Egor didn't have time to stop them.
Klaus disappeared into the restricted area, face empty, posture rigid.
The last step.
And then he crossed the line.
From the very first day, he'd wanted to know what was up there.
He just hadn't expected to pay for that curiosity like this.
The hall was dim.
No tables. No bar.
Just narrow corridors, thick purple carpet swallowing footsteps, rows of numbered doors on both sides.
At the far end — another entrance.
Separate.
For clients.
"Welcome to our little kingdom," the waiter said, sweeping a hand through the air like he owned the place.
"What exactly am I supposed to do here?" Klaus asked flatly.
"First — introductions. Stas. Twenty-two. Economics student."
"Klaus."
Stas waited.
"…Twenty. Not studying."
"Honestly, no idea why Klara dragged you up here," Stas went on. "She doesn't usually do that. But I've been told to break you in." A pause. "First tip — learn to smile. With a face like that, you won't sell."
"I didn't ask for tips," Klaus said, voice cold. "Just tell me what I'm supposed to do."
Stas's jaw tightened.
Klaus didn't care.
Another one of those.
Smiling. Bending. Selling themselves for scraps.
Disgusting.
And soon—
That would be him.
That thought sat heavy in his chest.
"I think you'll get it faster if you see it," Stas muttered. "You're with me tonight. Follow, watch, learn. It's not that different from what you were doing downstairs. Come on."
Behind the stairwell was another bar. Another kitchen.
Separate.
Hidden.
Stas grabbed a tray — appetizers, an ice bucket, a bottle of champagne.
A blonde approached them.
Too perfect.
Big gray eyes. Full lips. Tight black dress riding just above her knees. Heels clicking softly.
Klaus's gaze dropped — involuntary — to her neckline.
She caught it instantly.
Smiled.
Slow.
Knowing.
"New?" she asked.
"Transferred from downstairs. Klaus. He's shadowing me."
"Alice," she said, eyes still on Klaus. "If you need anything… just ask."
Klaus gave a short nod.
"Go change," Stas said. "Your suit's ready. Locker room. Name's on it."
The room turned out to be a locker room.
Showers. Lockers. Dressing tables.
Covered in makeup.
Too much makeup.
For a men's locker room.
Klaus opened the locker with his name.
Inside — a brand-new black satin suit.
Bow tie. Vest. Crisp white shirt.
More suits. Shoes. Sealed socks.
Underwear.
All arranged.
All ready.
Like stock on display.
He changed.
The trousers were tight, restricting movement. The vest cinched his waist. The fabric clung where it shouldn't.
He looked good.
Too good.
That was the point.
"Ready?" Stas called.
"Yes."
"No. Not even close," Stas said, walking in. "Look at you. Do I look like that?"
Before Klaus could react, Stas stripped off his jacket, loosened the tie, popped a few buttons.
"There. That's better."
Klaus looked at himself again.
Now he looked unfinished.
Careless.
Like he'd been interrupted halfway through dressing.
Like he was meant to be looked at.
"This isn't professional."
"You're not here to be professional," Stas said bluntly. "You're here to be wanted. No one gives a shit how neat your tie is."
They stopped at one of the doors.
Stas inhaled, stretched a flawless smile across his face, knocked, and stepped inside.
"Good evening, ladies — did you miss me?"
The room was small.
Low sofas pressed together around a glass table. Blue-tinted light. Curtains drawn tight.
An old record player in the corner. Modern speakers beside it.
Paintings on the walls — bodies twisted together in obscene knots.
At the center sat a woman in a bright yellow dress.
The fabric covered her upper body but showed off her legs.
She was older than she wanted to admit.
The makeup tried to hide it.
Didn't quite succeed.
Her neck gave her away.
Her hands.
This wasn't someone who belonged here.
This was someone who should've been reading bedtime stories to grandchildren.
Around her — three more like her.
And one younger woman.
Thirty, maybe.
Stiff. Quiet. Out of place.
Like she'd taken a wrong turn somewhere in life and ended up here.
"Stasik! Finally!"
"My apologies," Stas said smoothly. "As promised — a new addition tonight. Klaus."
All eyes turned.
Klaus took a slow breath.
And put on the mask.
"Good evening, ladies," he said, smiling — warm, controlled, effortless. A slight bow. "I hope you won't mind my company."
"Oh, how polite," the woman in yellow beamed. "And handsome too. Ladies?"
A chorus of approval.
Stas watched.
And finally understood.
Klaus moved like he belonged here.
Too easily.
Smiled. Poured drinks. Answered questions.
As if he'd been doing this his entire life.
And slowly—
inevitably—
the attention shifted.
From Stas.
To him.
"Stasik! Another bottle of whiskey!"
"Klaus, you'll drink with us, won't you?"
"If you insist," Klaus said lightly.
"And bring the second menu," Charlotte added with a knowing smile.
The "second menu" was a folder.
Photos.
Stats.
Options.
Klaus caught a glimpse of his own face.
Listed.
Priced.
Available.
"Oh my, Klaus! Only twenty?" one of the women giggled.
"Age is just a number," he said smoothly, with a wink.
Inside, something twisted hard.
More drinks.
More noise.
Two more men joined — Kirill, thin and sharp-eyed, and Maxim, broad, muscular, slow.
"Come here, sweetheart," one of the women called.
Klaus didn't bother remembering her name.
He moved closer.
She leaned in.
Hot breath.
Sticky lipstick against his skin.
"My niece is bored," she murmured. "Didn't even want to come. But she needs to learn how to relax." A pause. "Entertain her. I'll make it worth your time."
Klaus forced himself not to flinch.
"Do you think she wants that?" he asked quietly. "She's been avoiding everyone."
"She's been watching you all night," the woman insisted. "Go."
Her lips pressed against his cheek again.
Wet.
Clinging.
Klaus stood.
Smiled.
Walked away.
The moment her eyes were off him—
he wiped his cheek hard.
Almost to the point of hurting himself.
"Good evening," he said softly, sitting beside the younger woman. "May I?"
She glanced at her nearly full glass.
"I get the feeling you don't actually like champagne," he said.
"…I don't."
"Then let's fix that. Whiskey?"
"That would be… strange. Drinking alone."
"Then I'll join you. Ice? Cola?"
"…Both."
He poured.
Whiskey for her.
Soda for himself.
"To a better evening."
Glasses touched.
She drank.
One turned into two.
Then three.
Her shoulders loosened.
Her voice softened.
Words started spilling out.
Klaus listened.
Nodded.
Encouraged.
Refilled.
This time — no cola.
"Tell me," she slurred eventually, leaning too close, "is it really that strange… that I'm thirty-four… and I've never had a proper relationship?"
"Not at all."
"You're just saying that because my aunt pays you," she muttered, pressing her hands against his chest. "You're only here because of that."
"Another drink?" Klaus asked calmly.
"I… I shouldn't… but I'm supposed to relax, right?" She laughed weakly. "So yes. Pour it."
A little later, her aunt approached.
"Well done," she said with satisfaction. "I've never seen her like this. Talkative. Drunk." A pleased smile. "Now take her home."
Something was shoved into Klaus's waistband.
A slap.
She walked away.
Klaus pulled the money out.
Counted.
His monthly salary.
For one night.
His fingers tightened.
"…Understood."
Outside, he took the girl's phone, about to call a taxi—
—and froze.
Through the window—
Egor.
Pressed against the wall.
Another waiter in front of him.
Knife in his hand.
Klaus didn't think.
He moved.
Elbow through glass.
A sharp crack.
Pain.
Blood.
His hand went through the gap.
Lock.
Door open.
Inside.
Fast.
Precise.
Brutal.
Seconds.
The attacker was down.
Pinned.
Still fighting.
Eyes empty.
Wrong.
"Possessed," Klaus said coldly.
"What?" Egor gasped.
"He's not in control."
"Don't kill him!"
"You want him to kill you instead?"
"No—just knock him out!"
Klaus struck once.
Clean.
The body went limp.
"We don't have long," Klaus said. "He'll wake up."
"There has to be another way!"
"Two options. Stop him. Or kill him."
Egor hesitated—
then reached into his pocket.
"What if we drain it? Like the spider?"
Klaus paused.
"…That might work."
Egor pressed the sphere to the man's head.
Light flared.
A thin silver thread stretched into the orb.
Klaus watched.
Something like surprise flickered in his eyes.
"You've got magic in you," he said.
Egor stared at the glowing sphere.
"…You're serious?"
"Not here. But in my world? You would."
The light faded.
The man lay still.
Alive.
Empty.
Klaus searched his pockets.
Found it.
A small stone.
Marked.
"Control artifact," he said. "Someone else is here. Close enough to control him."
"From your world?"
"Yes."
No time.
Klaus straightened.
"I need to go."
"And him?"
"He won't remember anything. Make something up."
Klaus pulled out the pink phone again.
Called a taxi.
Stepped outside.
Egor followed.
Watched.
The drunk woman threw herself at Klaus.
He caught her.
Held her steady.
Too close.
Too familiar.
Egor's jaw tightened.
So that's what he does now.
That's what he chose.
The taxi arrived.
They got in.
Left.
Egor stood there, staring after them.
Something burned in his chest.
Hot.
Ugly.
Why am I the one dealing with this?
Who the hell is she?
He pulled out his phone.
Dialed.
"…Hello," he said quietly.
A pause.
"I'd like to report an assault."