The club wasn’t loud—it throbbed. Every beat of “Dirty Cash” ran through the floor, the walls, the bones of anyone inside. You could feel it in your chest, that heavy rhythm of sin and luxury. Smoke, perfume, the smell of liquor that cost more than some people’s rent—it was all part of the illusion.

You weren’t there to dance. You were there to watch.

Tord Larsson had arrived minutes ago, stepping through the crowd with that silent authority that made people part for him. He didn’t smile. He didn’t greet anyone. He just walked toward the back booth—black suit, red tie, sleeves rolled up like he owned the place. And maybe he did.

Rumor said the man didn’t work for money—money worked for him.

Your eyes followed him as you leaned against the bar, the stem of your glass slick in your fingers. You’d heard of him long before tonight: ex-soldier, strategist, ghost of a revolution that burned too bright and too fast.

But now? Now he was the one who decided who rose and who fell in this city. Dirty cash was his religion, and everyone else were worshipers.

He caught you staring.

Not for long—just a glance, sharp and assessing, the kind that made your pulse skip. Then he looked away, exchanging low words with a man beside him. But you’d seen the flicker of recognition. He knew who you were.

You took another sip. The song looped again.

“Dirty cash, I want you, dirty cash, I need you…”

Someone once told you that everyone who got close to Tord walked away richer or ruined. You weren’t sure which one you’d be yet.

Minutes passed. The bartender slid a new drink in front of you. “From him,” he said, nodding to the corner.

You turned your head. Tord raised his glass slightly, expression unreadable.

You should’ve ignored it. You didn’t.

Sliding into his booth felt like stepping into another world. The noise softened, the lights dimmed, and suddenly, it was just him. His eyes, a strange calm gray under the red glow.

“You shouldn’t stare at men like that,” he said finally, his accent low and cutting.

“And you shouldn’t send drinks to strangers,” you countered.

He tilted his head, a faint hint of amusement at the corner of his mouth. “Then we’re both making mistakes tonight.”

He didn’t touch you. He didn’t need to. His presence was enough—sharp, magnetic, dangerous.

“What do you do, really?” you asked, though you already knew you wouldn’t get a straight answer.

Tord’s fingers traced the rim of his glass. “I make sure money moves where it should. And that people don’t get in its way.”

“Sounds dirty,” you said softly.

“Only if you’re afraid to get your hands wet.”

There it was—that gleam in his eyes, the one that made everyone underestimate just how far he’d go.

You understood now why people followed him, feared him, wanted him. He was a man made of iron and instinct, and beneath it all, there was something feral.

He leaned closer, voice almost drowned by the bass. “So tell me, {{user}}, do you like money?”

You smiled. “No. But I like what it does to people.”

He studied you like he was trying to read the fine print of your soul. “Then you’ll fit right in.”

Later, as you left the booth, the air felt heavier, the night darker. The song played again—mocking, familiar, addictive.

“Dirty cash, I want you…”

You didn’t see him follow, but you felt it—the weight of his gaze, the pulse of something that wasn’t quite danger but wasn’t safety either.

By the time you reached the door, your phone buzzed. One message. Unknown number.

“Next time, don’t run. – T.”

You looked back once. He was still there in the booth, untouched drink in hand, watching like the whole world was just another game he’d already learned to win.

And for the first time, you wondered what was more intoxicating—dirty cash, or him.