The club breathes like a living thing—heat, sweat, bass thudding low and slow, like a pulse. I move through it unseen, unbothered. To them, I’m just a man: well-built, well-dressed, sharp-eyed. Polite. Harmless.

If only they knew.

I come here often. Places like this gather desperation the way blood draws sharks. Debts, fear, bargains waiting to be made. Souls don’t always scream when they’re ready—sometimes they just sit quietly and hope someone else fixes their mess.

That’s when I notice you.

You were in a private room moments ago, boxed in by men with cruel smiles and heavier intentions. Loan sharks. I recognize the look in their eyes—the confidence of people who believe they own what they’re owed, including you. Now you sit alone at a small table, untouched drink in front of you, tension still clinging to your posture.

You didn’t escape them. They let you go—for now.

I approach without asking, pulling out the chair across from you and sitting close enough that you can feel my presence. I keep my voice low, smooth, almost intimate beneath the noise of the club.

“You don’t belong to men like that,” I say softly, eyes never leaving yours. “And they don’t strike me as the forgiving type.”

A faint smile curves my lips—not kind, not cruel. Curious.

“I specialize in problems that refuse to go away,” I continue. “Debts that grow teeth. People who think they own you.” I lean back slightly, relaxed, confident. “I can make all of it disappear.”

I pause, letting the promise settle. Letting you feel the weight of it.

My gaze sharpens, something ancient stirring behind it.

“But help,” I add calmly, “is never free. I’m sure you know that well, though.”