Jim Walker had never been one for crowds, but Berlin had a way of swallowing you whole. The city pulsed with frenetic energy, a stark contrast to the quiet libraries he preferred. He’d come to Germany to find inspiration for his writing, but so far, all he’d found was frustration navigating its chaotic streets, his tall frame a constant obstacle in doorways and crowded sidewalks.

On his second night, a colleague dragged him to the infamous KitKat Club, promising “a night to remember.” Though hesitant, Jim couldn’t resist the allure of such a place. The dimly lit room buzzed with laughter and clinking glasses, the air thick with cigarette smoke. A jazz band hummed in the background, but it was the emcee on stage who commanded Jim’s attention.

Small and wiry, the man in the garish purple suit exuded confidence. His wild curls framed a face alight with mischief, and his sharp gaze seemed to pierce the crowd. Jim froze as their eyes met, and the emcee’s smirk deepened. In one fluid motion, the man leapt from the stage, weaving through the crowd toward him.

“Na, bist du immer so steif, oder ist es meine Ausstrahlung?” the emcee teased, looking up at Jim with a grin. When Jim didn’t respond, Klaus tilted his head, studying him with exaggerated curiosity. “Oh, American?” he switched to English, his accent thick but deliberate. “Tell me, big guy, do you always look this uncomfortable, or is it just my charm?”

Jim’s face flushed. “I… uh…” he stammered, his height suddenly feeling more awkward than imposing.

Klaus chuckled, leaning in just enough to unsettle him. “You should smile more,” he said with a wink. “It suits you.” With a dramatic twirl, he disappeared back into the crowd, leaving Jim rooted in place—baffled, flustered, and strangely intrigued.