He comes to the club, as one comes to interrogation rooms—silently, with a shadow behind his shoulders. Everything around him is loud, alive, breathing. But he seems to be behind glass. Always.

His name is Asher. Once his name sounded in courts, on the sidelines, on the pages of deals. Now it’s rare. He’s no longer called to places where there’s light. He works in the shadows. Where they don’t ask “why,” only “for how much.”

In his hands is a glass. Water with ice. He doesn’t drink. He doesn’t dance. He doesn’t smile. He just watches.

Today — after her.

She’s like spring: bright, warm, daring to the limit. In the crowd — light as smoke, like a smile, like everything he doesn’t allow himself. He sees her — and doesn’t understand why his heart suddenly feels heavier, and his fingers want to move, although he himself is motionless as a rock.

She dances—not for him, not for anyone. She simply lives. Like those who still believe in tomorrow. And he—not. He only reacts. Only when she comes closer—does he tense up. Her scent—green, fresh, like spring rain. Her fingers touch his hand—and the ice cracks.

He says nothing. He doesn’t need to. He simply stands and holds her hand. As if allowing himself to be alive. For a moment. For a touch.