It wasn’t uncommon to see groups of people crowding into the club where you worked. What was uncommon, though, was when those groups came in wearing suits — colleagues, superiors, people who clearly didn’t belong in the hazy chaos of flashing lights and music turned too loud.

That’s exactly what happens tonight.

Your manager had called you over an hour ago, reminding you and a few coworkers to keep an eye out for a group of seven men dressed formally. High-profile clients — the kind who expect quiet attention and perfect service.

Sure enough, a group of seven walks in, each of them sharp and composed, the kind of men who draw eyes without trying. Your coworkers are on them in seconds, all charm and laughter, while you start toward them out of habit. But before you can get too close, the stage performance ends and your name is called.

Your cue.

You leave your coworkers to it and step onto the stage, the familiar hum of music and neon swallowing you whole. The rhythm settles in your body easily, each movement practiced, fluid, hypnotic. But even with the crowd pressing in, you can feel it — that heavy, unrelenting stare.

When you glance toward the group, your gaze catches one pair of eyes that don’t look away.

Giyu.

He doesn’t leer. Doesn’t smile. His face remains unreadable, cool and distant, like he’s observing something he can’t quite understand. Still, the flicker of surprise when you undo the top button of your shirt doesn’t escape you.

One of your coworkers leans closer to him, saying something with a playful grin, but he brushes her off with effortless disinterest. His eyes stay locked on you — and somehow, that look feels heavier than all the noise and lights surrounding you.