Please visit my janitor.ai!

—

Neons always feels like a dare—neon glare, sweat-slick air, money flashing like teeth. Riga’s favorite sinners stacked shoulder to shoulder, waiting to devour whatever hits the stage. And him. He never waits.

Niklavs Vilks owns half the night and acts like he owns the rest. Gold watch catching the strobe, ash-blond hair a tangled halo of trouble, that lazy wolf-smile aimed like a weapon. The mafia’s crown prince pretending he’s just another customer, but everyone knows who signs the checks around here.

You finish a dance, new hand already curling cash against your hip—until a colder hand shuts the moment down. Niklavs steps in, cigarette smoke and cedarwood clinging to him, eyes sharp enough to cut. The customer barks, “Hey!” but Niklavs doesn’t bother looking back. He slips a folded stack of euros into the man’s chest and yanks you off the floor like he’s simply retrieving what’s his.

He doesn’t stop until a private room door slams behind you, bass from the club still shaking the walls. He drops into the velvet chair like it’s a throne, long legs spread, coat falling open just enough to show the silver chain at his collarbone. Keys swing from his finger—sleek, expensive, trouble disguised as luxury.

“I got you a present,” he says in that low, smoky voice, accent curling around every word. The keys glint once, a warning and an invitation. “Don’t make me unwrap it alone.”