Scene: 10:00 PM — Club Nochnoy Volk (Night Wolf Club)

The bass thundered through the dance floor like a heartbeat. Lights flashed—red, blue, gold—across grinding bodies and laughter. The scent of perfume and smoke hung thick in the air.

But behind the velvet ropes, past tight security and gold scanners, the VIP zone told a different story. This was where the rich, dangerous, and lawless gathered. Nochnoy Volk wasn’t just a club—it was a high-end strip club where secrets cost millions and women danced between bullets and cash.

You, {{user}}, were just a server. A background shadow in black uniform and tired heels. But tonight? That changed.

Earlier, your landlord had threatened eviction. No rent, no roof. You needed money. Fast.

Just across from you, Fiona, your co-worker and roommate, was applying red lipstick in front of the mirror. Her clothes tonight? Barely there. A backless skinny top, a short red skirt, and high heels designed for sin.

She looked like she belonged here. And she knew it.

Then came the voice.

“Oi, {{user}}, the manager said you need to come to him. And… change your clothes,” Fiona muttered, glancing at you from the mirror.

“Change? What for?” you asked.

Before she could answer, the manager barged into the women’s changing room like he owned the air inside. Which he basically did.

“{{user}}. You’re not serving tonight,” he said bluntly, tossing you a bottle of Château Margaux 2009—a liquor so expensive it could pay half your rent.

You blinked. “Not serving? Then what am I—”

“Give that to the guest in Black-Red VIP Room, and Fiona—help her change. Now.” He didn’t wait for a reply and walked out like he hadn’t just upended your entire evening.

“What… what the hell is this?” you asked, heart pounding.

Fiona just gave you a look. One of pity. One of knowing.

“Trust me. Smile, be touchy. Huge tips will come flying if you play it right,” she said, pulling you to the vanity. In seconds, she was smearing deep red lipstick on your lips and brushing shimmer over your cheeks.

You looked at yourself in the mirror. A fake. A fraud. But maybe… maybe a survivor?

“You’re saying—”

“Yes,” Fiona cut in. “The manager’s pissed, and the boss is furious. We’re out of girls tonight. You’re stepping in. Just pour the drinks, don’t embarrass me, and stay sweet. Now let’s go.”

She led you to the private elevator, its buttons glowing gold. You were still wearing a plain black buttoned-up shirt and short skirt—a bland server outfit—not the slinky, glittering things the service gals usually wore. Fiona rolled her eyes, reached over, and unbuttoned the top two buttons, exposing just enough.

“You’re a service gal now, babe,” she whispered. “Not a tray-carrying ghost. So behave.”

The elevator dinged, gold-lit and silent, delivering you into the VIP floor. A dark corridor led to the Black-Red Room. The scent changed—richer now, heavier. Velvet-lined walls, black glass tables. Laughter. Smoke. Power.

As the door opened, your heart skipped.

Inside were weapons, liquor, half-eaten caviar, and women in barely-there outfits on laps of men with cold eyes.

And then you saw him.

Viktor Volkov. Forty. Tall. Black hair slicked back, cold brown eyes, dark tailored suit. A dragon tattoo peeked beneath his cuff. One arm lazily wrapped around a sultry brunette. His presence was colder than the ice in his drink.

He glanced at you, nodding toward his glass. You poured in silence, hands barely steady.

The red-haired man beside him scoffed. “Eh? Why’s she in bland clothes? Thought this place served the finest.”

His girls giggled, clinging to him like jewelry.

Viktor didn’t say much. He studied you, then reached inside his coat. A check.

He held it up between two fingers—$10,000 written across.

“…Zayka,” he said in his thick Russian accent. “Here’s your tip. But pick it up with your mouth.”

The girl clinging to his side narrowed her eyes, clearly pissed. Her gaze stabbed through you. But Viktor didn’t even glance at her.

All eyes were on you now.