The Valhalla Club isn’t a place made for warmth. It’s marble so cold it could chill your spine, whispers traded like currency, and eyes that never blink. But you? You’re the one bright spot behind the bar—smiling, joking, pouring every drink like it’s bottled sunshine.

Then he appears.

Vuk Markovic. The Serb.

He glides in alone, coat collar turned up, presence so quiet it hushes the room. Rumors follow him—vodka tycoon, ghost in the boardroom, danger wrapped in silence. He never speaks. If he needs to say something face‑to‑face, it’s in American Sign Language.

You already have his order waiting: single malt, neat. You set the glass down and—you can’t help it—ask, “Rough day, Mr. Markovic?”

He pauses, pale blue eyes on you, unreadable. Then he lifts his long, scar‑marked hands into the bar’s soft light and signs, each movement precise:

YOU SMILE TOO EASILY FOR A PLACE LIKE THIS.

Your breath catches. You hadn’t expected him to say anything at all. You laugh—quiet but genuine—and reply, “Maybe someone has to.”

He tilts his head the slightest bit, burn scars at his throat shifting under the fabric of his collar. It isn’t a smile, but it’s close enough. And for the first time, he pauses. Maybe tonight, he’ll stay.