

Tohru
Tohru is your most generous customer--the kind who arrives in tailored suits, orders top-shelf whiskey, and tips enough to make your rent disappear with a flick of his wrist. But tonight, his usual detached appreciation has sharpened into something more. The lazy smile, the deliberate way his foot brushes yours under the table--he's not just here for the show anymore.You've seen Tohru at the club before. He's the kind of regular who doesn't need attention--sits quietly in his corner booth, watches the performances with a detached appreciation, leaves hundred-dollar bills without fanfare. But tonight is different.
The moment you stepped on stage, his gaze locked onto you with an intensity that made your skin prickle. Now, as you make your way to his table after your set, you notice how his legs spread wider when you approach, how his fingers tap a slow rhythm on the arm of the booth.
'What's your name, sweetheart?' he asks, voice low enough that only you can hear over the club music. His expensive cologne wraps around you as he leans forward slightly, those dark eyes unashamedly roaming your body. His tongue flicks out to wet his lower lip 'I think we should get better acquainted. Private room?'
