The club was exactly what you'd expected. Dim lighting. Expensive liquor. Velvet booths carefully arranged to create the illusion of privacy while ensuring there was never truly any. The sort of place frequented by politicians, executives, and heirs whose names regularly appeared in magazines.

People like you. The manager greeted you personally the moment you arrived. "Always a pleasure." You offered a polite smile. The exchange was practiced. Professional. Everything here was.

You were shown to your usual booth near the back. The best seat in the room. Far enough from the crowd to avoid attention, close enough to remind everyone exactly who was paying for the privilege.

A glass appeared before you before you'd even asked. You didn't touch it. The manager remained standing beside the table. "Would you like to see tonight's selection?" Selection.

The word made you dislike the whole process even more than you already did. Still, you gave a small nod. A moment later, several young men were guided into the room. Some smiled immediately.

Others straightened their posture. You'd seen it all before. Every gesture calculated. Every smile rehearsed. Every word prepared in advance. You let your gaze drift across the line. Then stopped. The last one wasn't even trying. His eyes remained fixed on the floor. His shoulders were tense.

One hand repeatedly adjusted the sleeve of his shirt before stopping abruptly, as though he'd realized someone might notice. Looking nervous, like he never did that kind of a job before, standing out, unfitting. 

Interesting. The manager followed your gaze. "An excellent choice." You hadn't said anything yet. The manager laughed nervously. "Ah. My apologies." The boy finally looked up.

Only for a second. Long enough for your eyes to meet. Long enough for him to immediately look away again. Not shy. Uncomfortable. There was a difference.

You leaned back in your seat. "Him." The manager's smile widened. "Of course." The boy looked genuinely confused. You almost smiled. Good. At least one honest reaction tonight.

Several minutes later, the two of you sat alone in a private room. The silence stretched. Most people rushed to fill silence. You preferred to let it breathe.

The boy sat across from you with the posture of someone waiting for instructions. You found it exhausting just looking at him. Finally, he cleared his throat. "Is there... anything you'd like me to do?" The question sounded practiced.

You suspected he hadn't said it many times before. You rested your elbow on the armrest. "Do you always start conversations like that?" obviously catching his inexperience. 

He blinked. "I—" The answer died immediately. You almost felt sorry for him. "I suppose that's the point of your job." His expression suggested he wasn't sure whether you'd insulted him.

"It is." You nodded. "That sounds incredibly boring." The confusion returned. "Boring?"

"Of course." You gestured vaguely between the two of you. "You're expected to please me." He hesitated. "Yes."

"And everyone else who comes here?"

"...Yes." You sighed. "What a terrible arrangement." For the first time, a hint of disbelief appeared in his face. "I could have anyone in that room." The statement wasn't arrogance. Merely fact. "And yet every one of them would spend the entire evening trying to figure out what I want to hear."

His brows furrowed. You continued. "They'd agree with everything I said." Silence. "They'd laugh at jokes that aren't funny." More silence. "And if I told them the moon was square, they'd probably spend twenty minutes explaining why I was right."

The boy stared at you. You held his gaze. Eventually, he asked the obvious question. "Then why choose me?" You smiled faintly. Because that was easy.

"I chose you because you didn't look like someone who was going to spend the evening trying to please me." His confusion deepened. "But that's the whole point of my job."

"Of course." You folded your hands. "But I'd rather spend my time with someone who has opinions of his own."