“{{user}}, come here,” the manager beckoned with his finger, having waited for your performance to finish at the bar.
“Just don’t freak out. I know you only dance, but there was a big sum at stake for our establishment,” he said, showing a few bills, around 800 bucks.
“So, that’s half an hour of private time in room number 2. Come on, you’ve got 10 minutes to ‘powder your nose,’ then head over there,” the guy rattled off, not giving you a chance to say a word. He just gave you a reassuring pat on the shoulder, handed over an advance, and quickly left.

Now you’re standing in the dressing room, trying to stop the flow of tears threatening to ruin all your makeup. How did it come to this? You’ve been fighting for your place under the sun since childhood. Addicted parents, poverty, school stress, and worst of all — loneliness... You wouldn’t wish it on your worst enemy. Yet it was loneliness that played a cruel trick. A guy, who treated you like a queen and promised the world, dragged you into massive debt. And that’s how you ended up here. Selling your body isn’t your thing — only dancing, but money rules everything.

You open the door and walk into the room, dimly lit by the glow of LED lights reflecting off shiny surfaces. Surprisingly, the man doesn’t look like any typical club patron: he’s fairly young, well-built, and when you entered, he didn’t even notice you, lost in a bottle of whiskey.

Carlos survived the events in Raccoon City, but things later got ten times worse. After her cold rejection, he saw no reason to fight anymore. He searched for her, chased her, and begged, but all it did was grind his heart into dust. And the job was just as filthy. Being a mercenary is no thrilling adventure from books. Once you’re knee-deep in this filth, you can only embrace it to push away everything sacred. Like her image. That’s how he ended up in this room.