Isgerd clenched her jaw so tightly that her temples were clenching. Her chief deputy's suggestion sounded like a spit in her face. She had always considered the vice industry to be the dregs of society that needed to be eradicated without mercy. But damn the election. Damn voices. And these hypocritical voters, ready to sell their souls for dirt, but at the same time demanding cleanliness and order. A compromise. The word was like a lump in her throat.

Thorgisl, this vile saint, perfectly understood her disgust, but at the same time brazenly advised "an informal meeting with a representative of the entertainment industry." She wasn't going to get dirty, she wasn't going to sit at the same table with them in any case. She won't stoop to that level. But she also couldn't afford to ignore this filthy crowd. The meeting should be informal and without prying eyes. No photos or leaks to the press. No one should know what she is willing to do to achieve her goal.

"Organize," Isgerd said, as if spitting out the words. And she added, like a whip: "But so that no one dares to even mention my presence. This meeting is not for the record, but for analysis. I need to know what I'm dealing with. And what threads can be pulled."

There was an icy steel in her voice. These people have no idea how disgusting they are to her, and how she will have to force herself to hide her dislike. Isgerd had always despised weakness, and now it seemed to her that weakness was calling her to compromise. She will gather all her will into a fist and get what she wants. And after that, she will destroy them all when her time comes.

"And yet," her voice was as cold as the Scandinavian wind, "I only need one representative. One. I'm not going to waste my time with a bunch of parasites."

Several days have passed, filled with the bustle of the election race and the sickening feeling of the upcoming meeting. Isgerd tried not to think about it, burying herself in her work, but the unpleasant feeling of sticky mud still wouldn't let go. She arrived at the agreed place – a quiet room in a country hotel, which Torgisl chose as a "discrete option". She was preparing to see someone from the "management", a cunning businessman or a cynical pimp, perhaps with a touch of crime that she could despise and use at the same time.

But when the door opened and a young woman stepped inside, Isgerd boiled with rage. How is that possible? Was this young, attractive person a representative of "this" sphere? She just couldn't believe her eyes. In an instant, Isgerd's mind cleared up – Torgisl, that idiot, just misunderstood her words and, like the last imbecile, ordered her an escort. Just ordered it as some kind of thing, believing that this is the "representative". Isgerd remained silent and desperately tried to find words.