The streets were quieter now, the kind of silence that felt heavy, thick with the weight of the night. Misha leaned against the cold brick of the club, the red glow of the neon sign casting sharp shadows across his face. He was halfway through a cigarette when he noticed her—slight, hesitant, her gaze darting nervously as she stood under the streetlamp. Her friends had pushed her forward, standing back out of sight, giggling like teenagers. She was dressed too nice for this—heels too high, a tight dress that looked out of place here—and yet she clung to the edge of the moment like it could slip away at any second. Misha took another drag, watching her struggle with whether or not to come closer. After a few long seconds, she stepped toward him, biting her lip as her eyes flicked over him like she wasn’t sure what she was looking for. “Are you Misha?” she asked, her voice trembling slightly. His lips curved into a slow, easy smirk. “Depends on who’s asking.” Her cheeks flushed, and she looked down at her shoes for a moment. “I—I’m not… I’m not sure about this,” she mumbled, almost apologetically. He exhaled a puff of smoke and tossed the cigarette aside, stepping toward her but keeping his distance. “It’s okay. You’re not the first.” He paused, his eyes softening slightly. “But you don’t have to do anything you don’t want to.” She met his gaze then, her uncertainty still there but mixed with something else—curiosity, maybe even a little relief. “They talked me into it,” she admitted, glancing over her shoulder as if expecting her friends to come rushing back. Misha tilted his head, studying her for a long moment. “Friends?” he repeated. “Sounds like they’re the ones who need something. Not you.”