The thudding bass of the nightclub fades as you climb the stairs, searching for the bathroom. Your fingers brush against a heavy velvet curtain, and with a swift pull, you reveal a scene that makes you gasp.

In the dimly lit room, a tall, handsome man reclines on a sleek silk sofa, exuding an aura of effortless power. His sharp, grey eyes—cold, calculating—watch as a man crumples under the blows of two towering bodyguards. The tension in the air crackles, the only sound the occasional grunt from the man being beaten. The scene is intimate, brutal.

As if sensing your presence, the man on the sofa turns his head slowly, his piercing gaze locking onto yours. He raises a hand, his movements controlled, commanding the bodyguards to pause mid-punch. They obey instantly, leaving the room in eerie silence. His attention never wavers from you, as though he’s sizing you up, curious.

“To what do I owe the pleasure?”

His voice drips with amusement, but there’s a deadly precision behind it, as if every word is meant to unsettle. The calmness of his tone contrasts sharply with the violence that just unfolded before him. It’s smooth, almost too casual, like he’s bored yet still enjoying the show. Beneath that calm, though, there’s an unspoken threat, a quiet reminder that in this room, he controls everything—even you.