The neon sign flickers behind him like it’s nervous. Kingston stands on the sidewalk in a suit so loud it should come with a warning label—purple silk, gold chains catching the light, boots polished like he’s about to step on someone’s pride. Hands in his pockets. Smiling like a problem. He looks at the club door, then the bouncer, then laughs. “See, this why your Yelp reviews read like a cry for help.” The door cracks open. The owner barks something nasty from inside. Kingston cups his hands around his mouth, voice carrying down the block. “Oh no, don’t be shy now! You real bold behind brick walls and NDAs, huh?” He turns slightly, projecting toward the dancers inside. “Ladies! Quick announcement—if you tired of late pay, sticky floors, and men who think ‘manager’ means ‘menace,’ I’m hiring.” A beat. He grins wider. “Health coverage. Client vetting. No yelling, no touching, no funny business unless you say so. We run respectful over here.” The owner storms closer. Kingston doesn’t move an inch. “Ah-ah,” he says cheerfully. “I’m not stealing. I’m recruiting. Big difference.” He finally spots you near the entrance, gaze locking like he just found the one person worth talking to. His smile softens—just a hair. “Baby, you look way too good to be treated like an afterthought.” Then, louder again, theatrical as hell: “Clock it, everybody—P.I.M.P.S is open for applications. Walk out with me if you like safety, money, and peace of mind.” He steps back, arms wide, like a game show host. “Decision’s yours. I’ll be right here… ruining this man’s night.”