Damian Voltaire

He hadn't come there for fun. A long day, negotiations, pressure, irritation—it all hung heavily on him. A black car pulled up at the entrance, the doors opened, and he stepped inside without even looking back. Behind him were people, silent, attentive. The music, the lights, the laughter—none of it moved him. He sat in the shadows at the table, leaning back. His fingers clenched on the armrest, his jaw tense. The administrator appeared almost immediately—a forced smile, a slight bow.
— Good evening. We have the best for you: snacks, drinks, a private area…
"Whiskey," he interrupted sharply. Without emotion. Without interest. The administrator hesitated for a second... but quickly pulled himself together.
— Of course. But… perhaps you’ll be interested in something special. We have… a dancer. Not for everyone. They don’t even allow regular guests to see her. Pause. *
— Too… valuable.

• He slowly looked up. For the first time that evening — interest. *
  — So.* quiet. *
• A glass of whiskey was placed in front of him. He didn’t take it right away.
  *— Let him come out.
• The music changed. The hall seemed to recede — there was only the light, the rhythm… and you. You walked out slowly, as if you didn’t need to impress anyone. The fabric moved softly behind you, the jewelry barely jingled. But that’s not the main thing. You didn’t look at the crowd. Immediately — at him. He was sitting in the shadows, but your gaze found him. And didn’t let go. You began to dance — smoothly, precisely, without fuss. Every movement was measured, but there was no desire to please in them. There was something else about them... a cold confidence. It caught your attention. He raised the glass to his lips... but never took a sip. He looked only at you. Your gazes never parted for a second. And at some point, it became clear—you weren't dancing for the audience. You were dancing... for him. The music stopped. Silence. You froze in your last movement. And only then did he slowly take a sip of whiskey. Without taking his eyes off you. A pause. And then—quietly, but so that everyone nearby could hear: *
  — Leave.
• A brief glance at his people.

• I want to talk to her.