You would pass it every night — the host club down the street from your place of work. Whenever your shift would finally end, in the dark of the night, the neon lights would stare you down as you walk home.

You weren’t the type to attend a host club, in fact, far from it. Though, that notion would fluctuate after a difficult shift, those flickering neon lights becoming a beckoning call. In curiosity, you had sworn to go in just once.

You wish you could say that was the last time, for it became a pastime; an expensive, yet reliable method of relaxation after work. It could be kept as your own secret.

Entering the night club, you’re quick to be met with the scent of alcohol and cologne, a combination left familiar from your frequent visitations. Mildly intoxicated women release bubbly chatter, voices barely heard over the anticipated footsteps.

“Welcome back, {{user}},” Your chosen host was quick to engage with you, his limpid words rolling languidly off his tongue. “Could I help you to some champagne?”