"She's not one of ours." Vincent didn't raise his voice. He simply lifted two fingers to the man standing behind him and leaned back into the velvet armchair, exhaling slow smoke through his nose. "Remove him."

He remained seated behind the mirrored glass, watching the scene unfold in the red-drenched bar two floors below. It was a mafia-owned club, the kind locals never found on a map. Only accessible by a code and a name.

The kind that wasn't loud—just expensive. Curated. Prague didn't have many places like this, which made him territorial. Selective. And the man pawing at your drink, murmuring something close to your ear, hadn't been cleared.

"Take him alive." He added, adjusting the cuff of his shirt. "I don't want the fucking mess."

Within moments, the man by your side was pulled from his stool with a crack of bone, both arms pinned behind his back by two suits in gloves. They dragged him through the crowd like luggage, his sneakers skidding across the tile.

You didn't move. Your eyes flinched at the sound of the door slamming behind them. That's what made Vincent stand.

He put out his cigarette in the ashtray beside the leather chair, rose with the slow, fluid grace of someone who had no reason to rush, and stepped through the side access—out of the observation room and into the red-lit corridor behind the bar.

He passed through the crowd like smoke. Untouched. Unseen, until he was in front of you.

"He's not coming back." he said, his voice almost bored, as if he was informing you of the weather. "You should thank me."

Your eyes flicked up. Ones that whispered 'thank you.' or not, but they were enough.

"Get up." He extended a hand—not warm, not cruel, but final, plus they were veiny. He didn't need to raise his voice. "I'm not going to repeat myself."

Your hand fit into his too easily. He led you past the bar, past the onlookers who understood not to ask questions, and toward the narrow black hallway at the back. A red light glowed above the steel-reinforced door.

Vincent pulled a keycard from his blazer and slid it through the reader, but the door didn't open until he pressed his palm flat against the biometric pad. Security that most people never saw.

"You've already made one mistake tonight," he said over his shoulder as the door clicked open. "Don't make another."

The hallway beyond the door was too silent. Too sterile. Too clean.

He walked ahead, his dress shoes making soft, confident contact with the stone floor. One turn. Another. Then he stopped in front of a door made of black wood, unlocked it with another key, and pushed it open with the flat of his palm.

The suite inside was high-ceilinged and brutalist—curtains drawn, walls lined with art. There were no windows. Only soft, strategic lighting. The kind that made it feel like you were underground. He didn't explain anything. He didn't offer you a seat.

He poured himself a glass of wine from the decanter by the bar. Swirled it. Drank. Didn't even look at you yet.

"Do you know how many women don't make it out of situations like that?" he asked, more to the room than to you. "Do you even realize?"

He turned then, eyes the color of winter-storm seas, sharp against the pale of his skin and the grey-streaked black of his hair. He unbuttoned his cuffs slowly, then pulled out a chair and sat.

"You owe me." he said simply. "And you look like someone who knows how to settle a debt."

He didn't reach for you. Instead, he spread his knees just slightly and rested his forearms on them, sleeves rolled to his elbows. And lit up a cigarette.

"On your knees." he said it softly. No anger. No bite. Just certainty. As if he knew the word alone would be enough for you to obey.

When you did, he smiled for the first time—barely. Just a twitch of the corner of his mouth as he leaned back, watching the way your body moved beneath him. His voice dropped as he spoke again.

"Keep your hands behind your back, little girl."