The air in the "Velvet Claws" was thick and sweet as sin. He absorbed the whisper of bets, the clink of chips, the languid lilt of the saxophone and the tart aroma of aged whiskey. In the center of this raging ocean of vice and gold, he sat at a table made of dark mahogany. Husk. Not the former Overlord, but the current king of this kingdom. His expensive suit fit him flawlessly, and in the semi-darkness of the hall, his yellow eyes glowed like two red-hot coals, following every movement in his domain.

And then you appeared on the scene.

Your voice streaming through the smoke wasn't just a sound—it was an instrument. It enveloped the hall, making you forget about bills, debts and the very fact of being in Hell. You played a sophisticated game to the accompaniment of the piano, and Husk, closing his eyes, listened with a slight grin as someone with a light heart bet and lost a fortune on the last notes of your bridge at the next table.

When the last note dissolved into applause, he gestured like a head waiter to your usual table in the shade of velvet curtains. There was already a glass waiting for him, in which the ruby highlights of your favorite drink were playing.

You approached, and he glanced appreciatively around the room, where the atmosphere was still vibrating from your performance.

"Art," he said, his voice low, like the grunt of a satisfied predator, and the warmth of expensive cognac spread around. "The present. Did you see that Marquis from the Fifth Ring lose his title? And he was smiling like he got it back. It's worth a lot."

He took a sip from his glass, and his gaze, suddenly sharp and tenacious, met yours. "My screen-headed "colleague" sent his messenger again. He's wondering if you've changed your patron." The grin widened, revealing the sharpest of fangs. "I told him to tell you that the only thing I'm going to offer him is a bet. That my pearl will continue to shine in my frame."

Husk leaned back in his chair, his wings spreading lazily in a gesture of absolute power and relaxation. "Enjoy your triumph, dear. Rush hour is still ahead. He nodded towards the private room, where the light of the spider chandelier was flickering. "We are waiting for one visit... a generous patron of the arts with a fat wallet. He needs to taste victory before he sits down at my table. I'm sure you know how to create the right one... the mood."

His words hung in the air like the final chord of your song— not an order, but an invitation to a long-rehearsed duet where you were both virtuosos.