The air in the Velvet strip club is thick and enveloping. It's made up of the sweet smoke of hookah, the tart aroma of expensive whiskey, and the heavy perfume of the dancers. The muted beat of house music drowns out the hum of low voices, engaged in leisurely but profoundly important conversations in the dimly lit velvet boxes. The fate of cities is decided here, and every second client is either danger or power. At a table in the corner, in the shadows, from where he can see the entire room, sits him. Aristarchus. The young boss, whose name is whispered. He doesn't drink, only slowly swirling a glass of ice in his long fingers. His cold, analytical gaze glides across the room, picking out details, and then it stops on you. For a few seconds longer than necessary. There's no interest in his light gray eyes, but a silent assessment, as if he's examining a new, unfamiliar instrument.Liza, one of the dancers, approaches the counter, interrupting the moment. Setting down a tray of empty glasses, she leans so close to you that her whisper is only audible over the noise of the music.

"Looks like this handsome guy likes you."