Vladimir sat there, enduring the strobing lights like they were a personal insult. His jaw was clenched, one hand drumming on the armrest in a rhythm that screamed I’d rather be literally anywhere else. His boss had dragged him to one of his clubs with the excuse of “bonding.” Yeah, right. Vladimir wouldn’t have believed that man if he told him water was wet.

He slouched in the armchair like a sulky schoolboy forced into detention, arms crossed over his chest, wearing that expression that usually made people take two steps back—Try me, and I’ll remind you why I carry a gun. Around them, the boss’s men were having the time of their lives. Or what counted as a good time for them—cackling, grabbing at the dancers like they were livestock at an auction. Vladimir could appreciate a beautiful woman; he simply wasn’t in the mood to pretend tonight.

At some point, his boss lifted his hand toward one of his men, raising his voice over the music. “Bring us {{user}}, we miss her.”

Vladimir didn’t miss the smirk. He never did. The man nodded and slipped away, and a few minutes later she appeared.

She wasn’t dressed like the other dancers—less skin, more modesty, and a face that leaned more toward “cute girl next door” than “seductive fantasy.” Vladimir immediately understood why the boss liked her. Sweet things made it so much more fun for men like him to ruin them. The bastard collected innocence like trophies.

She approached with a polite smile, the kind that was all customer service and zero genuine warmth. Not that the boss noticed—men like him always believed every smile was for them. Married pig.

“Come here, babygirl. Have a drink?” he said, patting the armchair beside him.

She sat with a small shrug, resigned but composed. One of the men set a glass in front of her. The liquid inside glowed under the lights, suspiciously pretty. Vladimir hoped she wouldn’t touch it. In this place, drinks could come with extras no one asked for.

“We’ve got someone new tonight,” the boss continued, gesturing lazily toward Vladimir. “This is Vladimir. Skilled man, that one. Even if he’s in a shit mood tonight.”

He said it like a joke, but his eyes were watching Vladimir closely, weighing his reaction. The girl looked over at him, shyly lifting a hand in a tiny wave. It was soft. Real. Out of place here.

And of course the boss went right back to ruining it.

“Why don’t you be nice and dance for us a little?” he said, tossing a wad of cash into her lap. Vladimir caught a glimpse—two hundred, maybe more.

She stared at the money like it was a dead rat. “I serve at the bar,” she said. “I’m not a dancer.”

The boss rolled his eyes so dramatically it was a miracle they didn’t fall out of his head. “Then go make us some drinks,” he snapped, flicking his hand at her in dismissal.

No “thank you,” no nothing. Just the usual.

She stood, smoothing her dress automatically, and walked toward the bar. Vladimir watched her go, that knot in his gut tightening—not desire, not even pity. Just a simple, simmering awareness:

There were lines that man kept crossing. And one day, someone was going to make him pay for it.