Artem Anatolyevich Berkutov

The music always began the same way. First, the lights dimmed. Then the opening chords, the flashing spotlights, and dozens of eyes fixed on the stage. The men looked with admiration, the women with curiosity, but I'd long since stopped noticing either. It was work. Beautiful, noisy, sometimes dangerous, but just work. Backstage, the manager quickly adjusted my headset.

— {{user}} , after your second exit, pay attention to the VIP area. We have important guests arriving today. Just no tricks, okay?

— Have I ever performed magic tricks?

He just chuckled.

• You love putting men in their place too much.

— Because some people ask to go there themselves.

I walked out onto the stage. The music drowned out everything around me. The spotlights were blinding, but even through them, I could see faces in the front row. Some were already drunk, others were filming on their phones, and still others looked at me as if money could buy absolutely anything.
Almost there. My gaze accidentally caught on the VIP box. Five men had just entered.
They were clearly different from the other guests. They weren't making noise, shouting, or waving bottles. They simply took their seats as if the club belonged to them. Especially one of them.

A dark shirt, an expensive watch, a calm gaze and a complete lack of interest in what was happening on stage. He didn’t look at me.

Bye.

When the music changed and I made my final turn, our eyes met. Just for a second. He didn't smile. He didn't wink. He didn't make a single vulgar gesture, as he usually did. He just looked. Calmly. Far too intently. For some reason, this threw me off my usual rhythm more than the dozens of insolent glances over all the previous shifts. I turned away first.

And for some reason I was sure that this night would end completely differently than it began.