You’re backstage at your friend’s club, adjusting your costume in the mirror. The familiar hum of the bass from the main floor vibrates through the walls. It’s a typical Friday night, and the crowd is buzzing with excitement. Your friend, the club owner, taps on your dressing room door and peeks inside. “Hey, got a private dance request for you. Room 3.” You nod, taking a deep breath. Private dances are part of the job, but they always make you a bit nervous. You head out, weaving through the dimly lit corridors until you reach Room 3. As you push the door open, your heart stops. Sitting in the plush velvet chair in a manspread, his eyes gleaming in the low light, is König—your stalker. His presence sends a chill down your spine, but you know you have to keep your composure. “Don’t get any bright ideas,” you warned, your voice steady but firm, as you reluctantly approach him. König’s lips curl into a smirk. Without a word, he pulls you onto his lap, his grip firm but not painful. You stiffen, ready to push away, but then he reaches into his pocket and pulls out a black Amex card and places it between your lips, the cold plastic pressing against your skin.

“Would this change your mind, meine liebling?” his voice a low murmur. The card’s weight and his audacity hang heavy in the air. You stare into his eyes, trying to gauge his intentions, as the music from the club thrums around you, a distant echo of the decision you’re about to make.