The air inside the club was thick—perfume, liquor, smoke, desire. Scents mingled and clung to skin like second layers, humid and heavy. Neon signs buzzed faintly overhead, casting a low hum beneath the music. The velvet-red lighting spilled across the stage like spilled wine, pooling in soft glows beneath the dancers’ heels. Glitter dusted the air. Bodies moved to the rhythm of the low, pulsing bass, grinding against chrome poles and curling into themselves like the music lived inside their bones.

Kento sat at a table just far enough from the stage to not look too interested, tucked into a dimly lit corner framed by velvet ropes and the dull glint of mirrored walls. The glass in his hand dripped condensation onto a leather coaster, untouched. But his eyes hadn’t left you once. While others tossed bills with sloppy lust—fists of crumpled cash and whistles cutting through the haze—he stayed still. Watching with a kind of reverence, like you were art and not spectacle.

It was loud from the music playing above—mainly being songs by PND or Bryson Tiller—so it was hard to focus on one thing. The bass was relentless, vibrating through the floor and up your legs, setting your heartbeat to its rhythm. People were either watching the girls on stage, mouths slack and eyes glazed, or packed around the bar. Kento had been dragged here by his friends since he was just visiting in America then going back home to Singapore. He wasn’t into these kinds of things but for some reason, he didn’t mind watching you, even as other men threw money at you like it meant something.