The taxi stopped at the corner near the bar, and Klaus headed straight for the private entrance to the second floor.
"Hey, hey — newbie!" Alice called out. Today she wore a ridiculously short dress layered with ruffles and glitter that caught even the dim light. "Go see Klara. Urgent. She's waiting."
"Hi," Klaus muttered, already moving.
"I'm still waiting for your number," Klara snapped the moment he stepped inside. "I'm done chasing you through Egor every time I need you."
"I didn't know I was working today."
"Of course you didn't. No one can reach you." Her eyes swept over him, sharp, displeased. "And what is that? Fix yourself. Full house in Hall Three. You're on."
"Understood. Anything else?"
"Yes." She handed him money for the taxi — far more than the ride had cost. Then a pale blue envelope.
The scent hit him immediately.
Familiar.
Clinging.
Someone else's.
Wrong.
"This came for you."
"What is it?"
"A thank-you," Klara said with a thin smile. "From a very satisfied client."
Her gaze dropped to his collar.
To the bruise.
Klaus covered it instinctively.
"I didn't do anything. I took her home. That's it."
"Of course you did," she murmured, not believing him for a second.
"I'll take this."
He snatched the envelope and turned to leave.
"Tonight won't be easy," she added. "You've been requested. Specifically. Twice. Don't disappoint them."
"I won't."
The note inside was short.
Grateful.
Too intimate.
Hope we meet again.
Klaus didn't finish reading.
The note — trash.
The envelope — trash.
The money — locker.
Hall Three was nothing like the private rooms.
Bigger.
Open.
Predatory.
Low sofas along the walls. Space between them. A pole in the center. A bar already drowning in orders. Music — just loud enough to blur voices, not loud enough to hide them.
"Your client," the administrator said, nodding toward a middle-aged woman in a stiff pantsuit. "And—" a pause, "you've got another."
Klaus followed his gaze.
A man.
Forty, maybe older.
Fit. Relaxed. Expensive.
The kind of smile that didn't reach the eyes.
"A man?" Klaus asked.
"What, that new to you?" the administrator shrugged. "Sometimes they want company. Sometimes more. Figure it out."
Klaus said nothing.
He chose the woman first.
She was easier.
Predictable.
"Good evening," he said, slipping into the role like a second skin. "May I?"
"You kept me waiting," she said, looking him over slowly. Measuring. Assessing.
Like merchandise.
He sat.
Smiled.
Listened.
Adjusted.
Every word calculated.
Every reaction tailored.
A performance.
Nothing more.
"Hello, Klavdia," came a voice behind him about an hour later. "Stealing my waiter? That's rude."
Klaus looked up.
The man.
The second client.
Watching him.
Not the woman.
Him.
"Sasha!" Klavdia laughed. "You were busy. I took what was free."
"Klaus, right?" the man said.
"Yes." Klaus stood, slight bow. "What can I get you?"
"Whiskey. Ice. Food."
"I'll bring it."
As he walked away, something inside him tightened.
Here, I'm not even pretending anymore.
Not a man.
Not a guest.
Not even a servant.
An object.
He thought of the palace slaves.
Of hands that never chose.
Of bodies that didn't belong to them.
And for a moment—
it stopped being abstract.
Just a few hours.
Endure it.
That's all.
He avoided alcohol.
Switched glasses.
Wet his lips.
Stayed sharp.
He needed control.
Then—
a hand.
Sudden.
Hard.
Between his legs.
Klaus froze.
"What's wrong, dear?" Klavdia asked.
He looked down.
The hand squeezed.
Slow.
Deliberate.
Testing.
He lifted his eyes.
Alexander.
Still talking.
Still smiling.
Like this was nothing.
"Excuse me," Klaus said, voice tighter now. "I need a moment."
The grip tightened once more.
Possessive.
Then released.
"Don't take long," Alexander said lightly. "We were just getting to the interesting part."
He winked.
Klaus turned and walked away.
Not too fast.
Not too slow.
The bathroom door shut behind him.
Cold water.
Face.
Again.
Again.
His reflection stared back.
Controlled.
Barely.
Leave.
You can still leave.
No.
Then this was all for nothing.
His jaw tightened.
"I don't offer that," he muttered. "Say it clearly. Once."
When he came back, the room had shifted.
Louder.
Messier.
Hungrier.
After enough alcohol, ownership blurred.
No one remembered who had paid for whom.
Who was assigned.
Who wasn't.
Everything became… available.
So who's the prey?
The ones throwing money?
Or the ones bending for it?
"Klaus," Alexander called.
"Another bottle!" someone laughed.
"Veronica, don't be greedy," Alexander said smoothly. "He's not yours. Get it yourself."
Then, quieter—
"Sit."
Klaus did.
"Juice?" Alexander asked.
"Yes."
"Good. I prefer clarity."
He leaned in.
Too close.
His breath brushed Klaus's ear.
"I like this," he murmured, tracing a finger along Klaus's cheek. "And this."
Lower.
Slow.
Deliberate.
Klaus caught his wrist.
Firm.
"I don't provide that kind of service."
Alexander smiled.
Slow.
Patient.
Amused.
"It's just touch."
"I said no."
The smile didn't break.
Money slid under Klaus's collar.
Warm fingers pressing it into his skin.
"Compensation."
A pause.
Then softer:
"I asked Klara to move you upstairs."
Klaus went still.
"She warned me," Alexander continued. "Said you might not… cooperate."
His fingers brushed Klaus's neck again.
Light.
Exploratory.
Like testing a boundary he fully intended to cross.
"I don't care."
His voice dropped.
"I'm tired of the others. They're empty. Eager. Already trained." A quiet breath. "You resist. That's the only interesting thing here."
Klaus's grip tightened.
He didn't speak.
"I'm not offering you a night," Alexander went on. "I'm offering you a position."
Money.
Protection.
Connections.
A future.
Each word placed carefully.
Each one closing the trap tighter.
"You'd be taken care of," he said. "Better than this place ever will. Better than they think you're worth."
Klaus's jaw locked.
"I'm not for sale."
Alexander chuckled.
Low.
Certain.
"Everything is."
A pause.
"Think about it."
His hand lingered a second too long—
then finally withdrew.
"I don't need your answer tonight."
Outside, the air felt wrong.
Too clean.
Too empty.
Alexander handed him a thick stack of cash.
"For lost time."
Then left.
Just like that.
Klaus stood there.
Money in his hand.
Breathing uneven.
He hadn't done anything.
Not really.
And yet—
his skin crawled.
Like something had seeped into it.
Like he couldn't wash it off.
What am I turning into?
A raven burst from the awning above.
Black wings slicing the air.
Too close.
A feather drifted down.
Dark.
Almost blue.
It landed at his feet.
Klaus stared at it for a second—
then turned and got into the taxi.
"I still don't understand where you get that kind of money," Pauoka said the next day.
"That doesn't matter," Klaus replied. "We have enough."
More than enough.
For now.
Later, he met Andrey.
Bought weapons.
Knives.
A compact tranquilizer.
Ammo.
Tools.
If this world played dirty—
he would too.
The days grew heavier.
Klaus spoke less.
Slept less.
Thought more.
Egor watched.
And said nothing.
On Friday, Klaus sat at the table, staring into cold coffee.
"Have you ever slept with a man?" he asked suddenly.
Egor froze.
"What?"
Klaus didn't look at him.
The conversation that followed didn't help.
Didn't clarify.
Only left something raw behind.
That evening, Klaus left.
Not in work clothes.
Something casual.
Wrong.
Egor followed.
From behind a parked car, he watched.
A silver BMW pulled in.
A man stepped out.
Confident.
Familiar.
Alexander.
A blonde girl followed.
Young.
Soft.
Unaware.
Klaus stepped forward.
Calm.
Controlled.
Like nothing had happened.
He bowed slightly.
Took her hand.
Pressed his lips to it.
She flushed.
And Egor—
standing in the shadows—
felt something twist hard in his chest.
Sharp.
Ugly.
Unwanted.
Like something was being taken from him—
and he couldn't stop it.