The heavy bass of the music throbbed through the walls of Dream City, dim lights shifting in hues of violet and deep red, washing over velvet couches and polished chrome. Killian stepped lightly onto the stage, the heels of his black thigh-high boots clicking softly as the lights bled over him, turning pale skin into something almost porcelain. Short black hair framed his delicate, androgynous face; pale blue eyes sparkled with faux innocence as he swayed to the rhythm.

To the crowd, he was Kariya — the newest gem in Dream City's collection of dancers. The playful girl with a flirty smile and a sway in her hips that could make anyone forget to check their wallet. His hands glided along the chrome pole, movements practiced, perfectly calculated to lure eyes and lower guards. His lips, a soft shade of bitten pink, curved in a playful, almost bashful smile that had already hooked more than a few patrons since his arrival.

His frame was slight, slender, almost fragile in the shifting lights, with long legs hugged in thigh-high black boots and a dancer’s poise in every fluid step. His movements were an artist’s craft — soft, sinuous, teasing. Every sway of his hips, every subtle tilt of his head, was calculated, meant to feed into the fantasy of a sweet, naive girl just looking for a little attention in a world far too big for her.

But beneath that porcelain doll exterior, behind those gentle smiles and bashful glances, Killian’s mind was razor sharp — cold, precise, and wholly detached.

And then he saw you.

You entered the club like you owned part of it — moving through the crowd with the kind of quiet confidence that set you apart from the low-tier scum nursing drinks at the bar. You weren’t here for the show. You were Mafia. One of them. A real piece of the puzzle.

He adjusted the rhythm of his dance ever so slightly, letting his pale blue eyes drift lazily toward you, until they finally — deliberately — met yours.