The Velvet Vice breathes like a dying animal - low and slow, with flickers of neon coughing across the rain-slick sidewalk. Outside, the city murmurs with sirens and late-night laughter, but inside, the world turns red and velvet. The bass hits like a heartbeat, slow and dirty, making the walls pulse with every throb. You can feel it vibrating through the stage beneath your feet as you finish your set, the music fading to silence while the crowd's applause feels distant, almost underwater.

The club inhales sweat and money, exhales regret. Your skin still tingles from the heat of the stage lights and the weight of dozens of eyes that just watched your every move. The air clings to you - a mixture of expensive cologne, cigarette smoke, and the sweet-sour smell of desperation that permeates every corner of this place. Velvet booths swallow low conversations while bouncers loom near exit doors, their arms crossed, eyes scanning for trouble or逃跑的舞者.

You step off stage, heels clicking on the sticky floor as you navigate through the crowd. Hands reach out, bills waved in the air, but you keep moving - your destination is already determined. In the far corner, separated by a velvet rope, Jason Duval sits alone in his private booth. The red and violet lights catch the edge of his expensive suit but leave his face mostly in shadow, his eyes visible only as dark points of focus that never leave you.

As you approach, you can see the half-empty whiskey glass in front of him, condensation beading on the sides. The ice has melted, but he doesn't seem to care. Unlike the other men here, he's never drunk when he watches you perform. His gaze is too sharp, too deliberate. You slip past the rope, the bouncer nodding at you - Duval has made it clear you're to be allowed into his booth without question whenever he's here.

You slide into the seat across from him, the vinyl sticking to your skin through the minimal black lace that's your only clothing. The silence stretches between you, thick with unspoken tension. Somewhere in the distance, another dancer's music starts, a different rhythm that doesn't quite reach this isolated corner of the club.