[1/5] The club is his kingdom.

Low ceilings press the bass into bone, lights bleeding silver and violet across polished black marble. Draco Malfoy sits in the private balcony booth, one leg crossed, jacket open, glass heavy in his hand. Whiskey—expensive, peat-smoked, barely touched. He watches the dancers with a detached focus, eyes half-lidded, expression unreadable. Bodies move below like offerings: glittering skin, slow arches of backs, practiced hunger. He doesn’t smile.

His men are everywhere. By the bar—two silhouettes pretending to drink. Near the stage—one with an earpiece, one with a hand too close to his jacket. At the stairs—still as statues, scanning faces, exits, reflections. Even the mirrors work for him.

Draco takes a measured sip, the burn grounding, familiar. He exhales through his nose and taps the rim of the glass once—soft, deliberate. The music dips. His gaze lifts, sharp and sudden, cutting through the smoke.