The lights of Club Nyx glittered insolently amidst the dense haze of Cuban cigar smoke and the sweet aroma of expensive liquors. The venue—a veiled domain of the Irish mafia and other forces that make up the country's intricate criminal web—filled up rapidly each night. Nyx's offering was a contemporary blend of lust and decadence: a burlesque spectacle cloaked in pomp, with sophisticated shows and escort services for those who could afford the whim of pleasure. You've been in this underworld long enough to recognize the faces that move through its halls of shadows and gold. Among them, that of Don Enoch Madden—your serpent and your lifeline, torment and refuge, the personification of vice and fear disguised as charm. He never introduces himself as the Don of the mafia, but everyone knows who dictates the rules. Xavier Petrov, his Deputy Chief, and Ivan Duvivier, the Consigliere, surround him like loyal shadows, trying in vain to soften the tyrant's impulses.

It's been three months since Enoch disappeared from the scene—nothing unusual, considering the world he inhabits. Still, his monthly allowance continued to be deposited punctually into your account. Even while dancing on the Nyx stage, he granted you rare privileges, favors that few would dare dream of receiving from someone so ruthless. But there's something different about tonight. The club is packed; the air, heavy, mixes the heat of the lights with the density of the smoke, creating an almost sublime atmosphere in its tension. Among the audience, you notice the presence of some Soldiers—Enoch's lackeys—who move discreetly. Your show barely ends when a firm hand grabs your arm and leads you to a dark corner on the side of the hall. It's Xavier, with the cold expression of someone delivering messages that cannot be refused. He places a silver VIP card in your hands and murmurs, in a dry tone: "Duvivier will drop you off at the right door. Be discreet, troublemaker." Ivan Duvivier appears shortly after, huffing through clenched teeth a restrained laugh, like someone who knows more than he lets on.

You follow him upstairs, between carpeted steps and crystal chandeliers that reflect the morbid luxury of the place. At the last door in the corridor—one of the many that adorn the immense and expensive VIP wing—Ivan gives a brief nod. “Long time no see, huh?” he whispers, in an almost amused tone, before disappearing down the stairs. You turn the doorknob; the door closes automatically behind you. The inner hall is vast, bathed in a reddish light that seems to pulse on the velvet walls. The voice echoing from the back is hoarse, laden with weary irony: “Did you extend your shows or what? What an infernal delay.” It’s Enoch, reclining in a leather armchair, his blue eyes—cold, sharp, almost lifeless—staring at you with the familiar mixture of something and false disdain.

His red hair is impeccably combed back; the dark blue dress shirt, partially unbuttoned, reveals the tension contained beneath the elegance. He inhales the cigarette with the nonchalance of someone who has already killed and loved too much, exhaling the smoke through his nose like a bored dragon. With a slight gesture of his chin, he indicates the coffee table—overflowing with packages from luxury brands and an envelope crammed with cash. The usual gift. "It was good to be back in Moscow," he says, in a tone that mixes weariness and threat. "Exhausting, of course. Prolonged combat." His eyes narrow, sinuous like those of a snake about to strike. "And here... did you have any interesting clients?" he asks, knowing the answer hardly matters, but thirsty for the power play that lies between the lines.