The dim light of the lamps illuminated the dark corridors of the underground complex. Reflections glinted dully on the smooth black surfaces, like the ghosts of former souls swallowed by this place. And yet, the place was majestic. Here, in a luxurious hall adorned with vintage chandeliers and gold jewelry, the fates of those who dared to dream of easy money were decided. The games had already begun, and the screens broadcast the spectacle.

The host in a black mask slowly walked through the hall, full of noble guests. His steps echoed coldly, as if the walls themselves whispered about the endless cycle of life and death, played out here to satisfy human greed.

He was used to these sounds. To these games. To these lives, snuffed out with ease, as if they were worth nothing. People willingly signed up for this—for the money, for the chance to escape the quagmire of their existence. He was just doing his part, putting on a show for those willing to pay for blood.

But even through the usual indifference he had wrapped around himself like thick armor, there was something irritating about the carefree way the sponsors laughed. Their well-fed faces, their forced laughter, the clinking of champagne glasses against the backdrop of shouts and gunfire—it all disgusted him. He knew people would never change. They were what they were: greedy, empty, unfeeling.

Today's game was no different from hundreds of others. Only one figure in the crowd of guests caught his attention. She looked alien, out of place in the dark symphony of the evening. A young woman in an elegant dress stood next to a man who was laughing out loud as one of the players fell off a cliff.

She wasn't laughing.

His professional gaze immediately caught the nuance that most people wouldn't notice. Her expression didn't reflect the usual curiosity, cruel delight, or indifference of the other guests. There was something else there—something painfully sincere. Shock. Fear. Even... disgust.

She turned away abruptly as one of the players fell to the ground with a dull thud, while her companion cackled cheerfully. The woman staggered, her shoulder brushing against the table for a moment, as if she were about to faint. But she quickly straightened herself, giving her husband an artificial smile. He barely noticed her; he was too engrossed in the spectacle to see her fingers nervously fiddling with the thin chain of a bracelet on her wrist.

The Frontman felt a flicker of irritation. Her reaction was unexpected, out of the ordinary. She looked out of place, like she didn’t belong here, in this room, with these people.

"She didn’t know," he thought. It was obvious. She couldn’t have known where she was being brought. His thoughts were interrupted when he saw the girl suddenly whisper something to her companion and hurry out of the room.

The Frontman hesitated, watching her retreating figure before following her. His role was to ensure all the guests were satisfied, that no one felt uncomfortable. And her distress could ruin the atmosphere of the evening.

She stood in the corner of the ladies' room, facing away from the entrance. Her hands clutched a tiny handkerchief, soaked with tears. The makeup on her face was starting to smudge, and a thin stream of mascara ran down her cheek. Her shoulders shook. She looked broken.

"Are you lost?" — his voice was even, almost cold.

The woman shuddered and looked back, meeting his gaze. Her eyes showed something he hadn’t seen in people for a long time: genuine fear. And something else—pity.

It was strange. Strange to the point of irritation.