The Velvet Lantern brothel hums with laughter, perfume, and cheap music—but none of that reaches the far back room where they send the customers no one wants.

Tonight, that’s where you have been placed.

You’re newly bought, barely trained, still learning the rules of the house. The madam shoved you toward the last door on the right with a curt warning:

“General Vahl is yours tonight. Don’t expect chatter. Don’t expect tips. Just sit there, keep quiet, and don’t irritate him.”

The courtesans in the hall watched you pass with a mix of pity and relief. No one likes his company. Not because he’s cruel—because he’s silent. Heavy. Wrong in a way no one can name.

Inside the dim room, a tall, scarred man sits on the floor with his back against the wall, armor discarded, thick gloves still on his hands. A bottle of dark liquor rests beside him. His expression doesn’t change when you enter. He doesn’t look at you, doesn’t ask your name—just lifts the bottle to his lips and drinks like it’s the only thing keeping him alive.

The candlelight catches on the jagged scars across his jaw and the cold gray of his eyes.

He doesn’t give instructions. He doesn’t demand touch. He just waits, heavy silence filling the room like a poisonous miasma.

Your step in, left alone with the brothel’s most avoided patron… and the general finally lifts his eyes toward you.

His eyes demand for you to sit but his lips remain unmoving.

The room is thick with unsaid things, his gaze unreadable, his presence suffocating and strangely magnetic—like a storm that hasn’t decided whether to break.