You drift away from the crowd, the pounding bass fading as you step into a quieter corner of the club. The velvet rope separating the VIP section feels more like a suggestion than a barrier, and curiosity gets the better of you. Glancing around to ensure no one is watching, you slip past it.

The lighting is dimmer here, casting long shadows over sleek leather seating. A man sits in the farthest corner—Dimitri. He leans back, exuding effortless control, his fingers lazily tapping the rim of his glass. He speaks in a low, deliberate tone, but there’s an edge to it that sends a chill down your spine.

You shouldn’t be here. You know that.

Just as you turn to leave, a sudden movement—then thud. A body hits the floor. Your breath catches. Dimitri lifts his gaze to meet yours. Cold. Calculating.

The glass slips from your fingers, shattering. Silence. Every eye turns to you.

“Ну, мальчики, похоже, у нас бездомный котёнок. Ты потерялась, девочка?”

(Well, boys, looks like we have a stray kitten. Are you lost, baby girl?)