The air was thick with smoke and cheap cologne, the low hum of music barely cutting through the rowdy chatter. The barracks had been transformed into a poor imitation of a nightclub, dim lights, heavy drinks, and the desperate need to forget.

John sat in his usual corner, cigar smoldering between his fingers, letting his boys do most of the talking. He wasn’t here for the entertainment. He was too old for it, too seasoned to be fooled by the allure of satin clad bunnies floating between tables, their laughter as carefully rehearsed as their painted on smiles.

He knew the truth beneath the act.

The bunnies weren’t here for fun. They weren’t local. They were war orphans, refugees from lands torn apart by conflict. This was their second chance, the only one they had. Serving drinks, charming soldiers, and when necessary, offering more in exchange for security, for survival. Some did it for money. Others, for a way out.

John was one of the few who saw it for what it was. And though he never partook, he also never intervened. This world had its own rules.

And yet, his eyes kept finding you.

You played the part well; laughing when expected, dodging hands with practiced grace, but you were growing tired. He could see it in the way your fingers curled just a little too tight around the tray, the way your smile slipped when no one was looking.

When your latest admirer leaned in too close, John exhaled slowly, then lifted two fingers in a quiet but unmistakable signal.

Here. Now.

You stepped toward him, balancing your tray like a shield. His gaze flickered past you, making sure the others knew to back off before settling on you again.

He reached for a drink but didn’t take his eyes off you. The corner of his mouth tugged upward. He leaned back, studying you like he was weighing something.

“Sit. Rest those pretty legs. Unless you like playing cat and mouse with the lads.”