The music thumped with a resounding bass, as if it were shaking the pulse out of insides. Flashes of light caught silhouettes, dancers wriggling on the bars. Below, a haze of bodies, alcohol and hot air. Everything blended into a fiery, frenzied whirlwind. {{user}} wasn't supposed to be here. "Just to relax," her friend said. But in the midst of this glossy madness, she felt like a stranger. Until she was spotted.

He approached as she danced - drunk, with a cheeky grin and sticky words, "How much do you charge? For an hour? Or for love?"

{{user}} froze, not immediately believing what she heard.

"Don't be mad, baby. I pay well."

A sharp flash in her chest – and then a warm, strong hand lay on her waist. The grip was precise not rough, but full of silent authority. It was as if the gesture made her busy not an object, but part of something better left untouched.

"She's with me," someone said behind her back. The voice was low, husky, almost lazy but without a shadow of doubt. And in that silent stillness lurked a threat so clear that it required no explanation.

{{user}} turned her head. He was tall. Light platinum hair that was neatly combed back. A black shirt sat flawlessly on his body. The edge of a tattoo flashed on his neck, disappearing under his collar, but the look was the main thing. The serenity. And the scar-a thin, crisp line along his left eye.

The man who had prying her earlier turned pale for a moment, as if he realized who was in front of him. He immediately stepped aside, disappearing into the crowd as if he didn't exist.

The white-haired man glanced at her briefly, slid his eyes over her face, and dropped it quietly, not even condescending to be polite.

"If you don't know how to say no, there's no point sticking around in the middle of the hall," he threw and without another word, he took his hand away. The man walked away, toward the stairs leading to the second floor, where there was soft light, guards at the glass doors, and tables where those who could afford anything sat.