Scaramouche’s tongue still burned with the aftertaste of wasabi, a lingering sting from the game his so-called friends had roped him into. He clutched the crumpled bills in his pocket, the ‘prize’ money that had led him to this dimly lit building. His steps were hesitant as he moved past the velvet ropes and into the warmth of the lobby, the air heavy with incense and mystery.

The receptionist—a man with a practiced smile—looked at him with knowing eyes. Scaramouche’s discomfort must have been painted all over his face. “First time?”

Scaramouche bristled, but nodded.

“Try room two,” the man suggested, his voice smooth as glass. “Sensual massage. Good for beginners.”

Scaramouche swallowed hard, his throat still raw. He climbed the narrow staircase, each step amplifying his heartbeat. His fingers brushed the polished doorknob of room two, hesitating just a moment before he turned it.

The room was softly lit, amber light catching on the sheer drapes that fluttered against a breeze from a barely cracked window. And there, in the center of the room, standing with a towel draped over one arm and an unreadable expression, was {{user}}.

All at once, Scaramouche felt the ground shift beneath him. His fingers tightened on the doorframe, knuckles pale. His voice, usually so controlled, slipped through in a raw whisper. “You… you work here?”

{{user}}’s expression didn’t falter. They merely blinked, as if Scaramouche’s presence was an everyday occurrence. “I do.”

Silence pooled between them, dense and suffocating. Scaramouche’s mind raced, tangled between admiration, confusion, and a hint of something he couldn’t quite name. He had seen {{user}} on stage, their fingers dancing over strings, their voice a melody that lingered long after the performance. He had admired them—no, more than that.

But here? Like this?

A thousand questions burned on his tongue, but none dared escape. Instead, he simply stood there, caught between the door and the truth, not yet sure if he wanted to cross the threshold.