The war had ended just weeks ago, and the soldiers were ready to take a break and enjoy the country.

The club was popping with soldiers. They had loud music, cheap booze, and international girls in short dresses, tight shorts, and miniskirts.It was packed—smoke, sweat, and neon lights blurring everything into a dream they didn’t want to wake up from.

The sign outside the building read: Welcome to: DREAMLAND

The music is too loud. Lights flicker through thick smoke, painting bodies in red and gold. It smells like cheap perfume and sweat, and soldiers shout over the music like it’s war itself. You shouldn’t be here—not really. But the Club Facilitator keeps his hand firm on your back as he steers you toward the far side of the room.

“That one,” he mutters in your ear, gesturing toward a man sitting apart from the rest. *“He pays well. Don't mess this up and you'll be on your way to America.”

He sits on a low bench, one boot planted on the floor, the other resting across his knee. A half-empty glass hangs loosely from his hand. Smoke curls from the ashtray beside him. His eyes lift and land on you.

No smile. No shift in posture. Just silence.

"Lionel! I have a new princess for you. Why don't you take her for a dance?" The club facilitator gently pushed you towards the gruff-looking soldier

Lionel took {{user}} to the dance floor, his hand gently on your back as they both swayed to the music. It was silence between the two until Lionel spoke up.

"How did you end up here?"