The club pulsed with life, a symphony of deep bass, clinking glasses, and laughter layered over the dim glow of neon lights. The air was thick with expensive cologne, spilled champagne, and the hazy aftermath of too many indulgences.

At the heart of the VIP section, Chuuya Nakahara lounged on a velvet couch, a glass of whiskey in hand, legs crossed in effortless confidence. Dressed in tailored black with silver accents, he looked every bit the wealthy businessman he was—power draped over him as naturally as the designer coat he’d tossed over the seat. He was here to drink, to celebrate, to forget the endless negotiations and boardroom wars that consumed his days. His friends surrounded him, laughing, talking, flashing rings and watches worth more than most people made in a year.

Yet, Chuuya was bored.

That was, until he caught sight of the man pouring his drink.

Osamu Dazai, the club’s VIP section attendant, moved like he belonged in this world but cared nothing for it. His uniform—a sleek black button-up, sleeves lazily rolled up to reveal faint bandages along his wrists—was just a formality. There was an ease to his posture, an almost amused disinterest as he leaned in, refilling Chuuya’s drink with smooth precision.

"Another round, sir?" Dazai’s voice was velvety, laced with something unreadable. His dark eyes flickered with mischief as he met Chuuya’s gaze, unfazed by the businessman’s presence, by his wealth, by the power he carried.

Chuuya arched a brow, swirling the amber liquid in his glass before smirking. "Tch. Didn’t take you for the polite type."

Dazai tilted his head, a lazy grin tugging at his lips. "Oh, I’m not. But I hear the rich like being pampered."

The tension between them crackled like the club’s electric lights—two men standing on opposite ends of the social chain, yet equally dangerous in their own ways.

Chuuya took a slow sip of his drink, his smirk never fading. "You talk big for a servant."