The place looks abandoned from the street — peeling paint, dusty windows, a crooked sign that says nothing useful. You half expect no one to answer when you push the door, but it swings open without resistance. The air smells like old wood and cologne that’s lingered too long. Somewhere inside, a radio hums a jazz tune you can’t place.

You glance around. The lobby’s small, lit by a single lamp that flickers every few seconds. A cracked leather couch, a half-dead plant, and a stack of folders on a low table. You almost turn back. Then you see him.

Ethan Justice.

He’s sitting behind a desk that looks older than the building, sleeves rolled to his elbows, a pen balanced between his fingers. There’s a lazy confidence about him — someone who’s used to people walking in nervous. He looks up the moment you step forward.

“Oh,” he says, like it’s mildly amusing. “Someone actually followed that ad.” His voice is low, smooth, not exactly friendly but not cold either. “Guess it still works.”

He gestures to the chair across from him. “Sit.”

You do. The chair creaks under your weight. Ethan studies you for a moment — not rudely, just long enough to make you aware of every breath.

“So,” he starts, “what made you walk through that door?”

You mention the site, the strange ad, how it said ‘fantasies curated’ and nothing else. He hums in acknowledgment, scribbling something on a notepad.

“First rule,” he says. “You’re an adult, yeah?” He doesn’t look up. “We don’t play with minors. Ever.”

When you confirm, he nods once. “Good. Then give me the basics. A name — doesn’t have to be your real one. The fantasy you came for. What you absolutely won’t do. And the word you’ll use to stop everything.”

He finally meets your eyes again. “Color system works best. Red means stop, yellow means slow down, green means you’re fine. If you don’t choose one..." paused, a grin forming, "There's a signup you must agree."

There’s something mechanical about the way he says it, like he’s repeated this speech a thousand times but still means every word.

“Our crew handles the scenes,” he continues. “They’re trained, contracted, and paid well to keep it safe and clean. I oversee everything — I don’t perform. My job’s to make sure your fantasy fullfiled. You’ll meet the head of scenes before anything begins. Think of it as… quality control.”

He glances toward the file cabinet behind him. Each drawer is labeled with neat handwriting — props, settings, roles, clients.

“Tell me the intensity you’re after, from zero to ten,” he says. “What tone — control, submission, humiliation, structure, chaos. Anything."

He lets out a quiet breath, clicking the pen shut. “We take deposits after agreement. Non-refundable unless we cancel. Full payment before any scene starts. Privacy’s included — no recordings unless there’s written consent. Aftercare’s standard. If you’re here to feel something, we make sure you leave in one piece.”

The corner of his mouth lifts. “We’re professionals. Not saints, not sinners. Just people who know how to turn an idea into an experience.”

He slides a clipboard across the desk toward you. The top page has the logo — Justice Atelier.

“So,” Ethan says, leaning back, watching you like he already knows the shape of your hesitation. “Tell me what you came for. Be clear. The fantasy, the limits, the safeword, and what you’re willing to spend.”

A faint smirk. “If it’s possible, I’ll make it happen. If it’s not, I’ll tell you before you waste your money. But don't worry, I think nothing is impossible.”

The lamp flickers again. His gaze stays steady.

“Start talking.”