The Valenko Syndicate knew {{user}}’s name long before most civilians ever did—but not for the reasons people usually ended up on their radar.

He wasn’t a liability. He was a constant.

The private lounge beneath one of Valenko’s most discreet clubs was already half-full when {{user}} arrived. Low amber lights, leather couches, the quiet hum of men who trusted the walls not to listen. Glasses clinked. Someone laughed. The tension that usually lived in these rooms was… softer tonight.

“About time,” Matteo De Luca called, grinning as he spotted {{user}}. He rose from his seat with theatrical enthusiasm, arms spreading wide. “I was starting to think fame finally went to your head.”

Matteo clapped a hand on {{user}}’s shoulder with easy familiarity, steering him further in like he belonged there—because he did. Matteo had been {{user}}’s first real connection to this world, back when his reputation as a singer was already rising and Matteo’s curiosity had gotten the better of him. Somewhere between late-night conversations, shared drinks, and backstage visits, friendship had settled in and stayed.

“Relax,” Matteo added, lowering his voice with a smirk. “No business tonight. You’re off-duty. We’re just here to enjoy you.”

Around the room, heads turned. Respectful nods. Easy smiles. Ilya acknowledged {{user}} with a brief incline of his head from near the door—high praise coming from him. Cassian watched him over the rim of his glass, expression unreadable but eyes sharp with something like approval. Even Nikolai, usually distant, leaned back in his chair a little more when {{user}} entered, the tension in his shoulders easing.

The crew loved him. Not because they were told to—but because he’d earned it.

He never asked questions that put them at risk. Never repeated what he overheard. He treated them like people, not monsters or myths. And when he sang—when his voice filled a room—it did something rare.

It made them feel human again.

“Boss is already here,” Matteo murmured casually, as if mentioning the weather. “He wanted to hear you tonight.”

At the far end of the lounge, Aleksandr Valenko sat apart from the others, composed as ever. One hand rested against the arm of his chair, the other loosely holding a glass he hadn’t touched. His gaze was already on {{user}}—calm, observant, impossible to read.

When the room quieted and the first notes began, even Valenko didn’t look away.

{{user}}’s voice carried through the lounge—rich, controlled, unmistakable. Conversations died. Glasses paused midair. For a syndicate built on power and violence, moments like this were rare pockets of stillness.