The taxi stopped at the corner near the bar, and Klaus headed straight for the private entrance to the second floor.
"Hey, hey — newbie!" Alice called out. Today she wore an extremely short straight dress covered in an unbelievable number of ruffles and sequins. "Go see Klara. Urgent. She's waiting for you in her office."
"Hi," Klaus replied absently and walked quickly toward his boss's office.
"I'm still waiting for your phone number," Klara snapped the moment he stepped inside. "I'm tired of tracking you down through Egor every time I need you."
"I didn't know I was scheduled today."
"Of course you didn't. How would you, when no one can reach you? And what is that appearance? Go make yourself presentable. We're hosting a large party in Hall Three tonight, and you're on the roster."
All the private rooms were called halls. Klaus had already learned that each one differed in design, purpose, and size.
"Understood. Anything else?"
"Yes." She handed him money for the taxi — several times more than the actual fare. "And this." She extended a pale blue envelope carrying the unmistakable scent of a familiar perfume. "This was delivered for you this afternoon."
"What is it?"
"A thank-you from a satisfied client." Klara smiled predatorily, her gaze lingering on his neck, where part of a bite mark showed beneath his collar.
Klaus instinctively covered it.
"I didn't do anything. I just took her home and put her to bed."
"Really?" she asked, raising a thin eyebrow.
"Yes. But I'll take this." He snatched the envelope and turned to leave.
"Listen," she added. "Tonight won't be easy. Several guests have their eye on you, and two of them refused to choose anyone else. Make sure they don't get bored."
"I understand," he replied calmly.
Inside the envelope was a substantial amount of money and a short note. The woman thanked him for his help and expressed hope they would meet again. The note — and the envelope — went into the first trash bin he passed. The money went into his locker.
Both women and men had been invited to the evening's event. Klaus knew only a few of the staff by name and had no interest in making friends. He was here for one reason, and it had nothing to do with expanding his social circle.
When Klaus entered Hall Three with his practiced welcoming smile, he was struck by how different it was from the room he had worked in the day before. This hall was at least ten times larger. Sofas lined the far wall, spaced widely apart, each with small tables nearby. A pole stood in the center. The hall had its own bar, where a bartender was already busy mixing cocktails and handing unopened bottles of whiskey, champagne, and vodka to waiters. A pool table occupied one corner, and there was ample space in front of the bar for dancing. Modern music played — not loud enough to drown out conversation, yet not quiet enough for dancing to feel private.
"Klaus. Your guest is that middle-aged woman in the pantsuit," said the administrator at the entrance, who supervised the staff and assigned waiters to the clients who had paid for them.
"Understood."
He was about to approach the woman — whose hairstyle resembled a black dandelion and whose bright makeup was visible even in the dim light — when the administrator stopped him.
"Wait. You have another client."
He gestured toward a man seated across the hall, engaged in animated conversation with a blonde whose name Klaus, naturally, did not remember.
The man wore a tartan suit, his jacket casually draped over the back of the sofa. The top buttons of his shirt were undone. He was in excellent shape — over forty, with faint gray at his temples and a dazzling movie-star smile that Klaus immediately recognized as no more genuine than his own.
"A man?" Klaus asked, surprised.
"What's so surprising? Sometimes they just want male company — to talk about football and women. Sometimes they want a mixed group for entertainment. And sometimes they simply prefer men. Who knows which case this is?" The administrator shrugged and motioned for him to proceed.
Klaus first glanced at the man, who clearly wasn't bored in the company of the beautiful blonde. Then at the woman, who scanned the bustling hall while half-listening to her talkative companion. Deciding the woman needed him more, he approached the bar, took a bottle of champagne, an ice bucket, and several plates of appetizers, and headed toward her.
"Good evening," he said with a courteous smile. "May I join you?"
"You kept me waiting, young man," she replied, studying him from head to toe and shifting slightly to make room beside her.
Another performance had begun.
Since childhood, Klaus had trained himself to notice the smallest shifts in mood and behavior. His dislike of crowds and meaningless conversation had taught him to observe rather than participate. He studied high society, drew conclusions, and adapted. This situation was no different. It was a game, and his role was to satisfy the lady's expectations.
About an hour later, a cheerful male voice sounded nearby.
"Hello, Klavdia. Isn't it rather improper of you to steal my waiter?"
Klaus looked up and saw his second client smiling at the woman.
"Sasha! I thought you were busy entertaining that stunning blonde," Klavdia laughed. "And it's not my fault you chose the same waiter. Let's not spoil each other's evening. You'll just give him to me?"
"Klaus, correct?" the man asked.
"Yes." Klaus rose with a slight bow. "May I bring you something to drink?"
"A bottle of whiskey, ice, and something to eat."
"I'll bring it right away."
As he walked away, an unpleasant heaviness settled inside him.
Here, I'm nothing but an object.
He thought of the slaves in the castle who labored daily without choice, living according to another's will. How heavy it was — to live someone else's life.
It's temporary, he told himself. In a few hours I will belong to myself again.
But would he?
He forced the thought aside.
This is for something important. I chose this path. I must see it through.
Hours passed in the company of his two clients and several waiters competing for Alexander's attention. Klaus did not mind. It was easier to speak with a woman whose intentions were clear than with a man whose expectations remained uncertain.
He avoided alcohol carefully — switching glasses when they were refilled, moistening his lips without drinking. He was not here for pleasure, though more than once the temptation to drink and stop thinking flickered through his mind.
Then it happened.
Klaus flinched.
"What is it, dear? Do you need a moment?" Klavdia asked.
Klaus lowered his eyes.
A man's hand was gripping him between the legs.
He looked at Alexander, who continued his conversation calmly, as if nothing were happening.
"Excuse me," Klaus said, raising his voice slightly. "I need to step away for a moment."
The hand squeezed once more before withdrawing.
"Don't be long," Alexander said with a smile. "We're discussing the advantages of opening a place like this. I hope you'll join us."
He winked.
In the restroom, Klaus splashed cold water on his face.
Should I pretend to feel ill and leave? No. Then everything tonight will have been pointless. I need the money. I just need to explain that I don't provide that kind of service.
When he returned, the atmosphere had grown even more uninhibited. After hours of alcohol, it no longer mattered who had originally paid for whom. Whoever was available became the target.
Who, then, was the true victim? The wealthy guests throwing money around like scraps? Or the waiters who made sure those scraps ended up in their own pockets?
Later, Alexander beckoned him.
"Klaus, my dear, bring another bottle of champagne," the blonde chimed.
"Veronica, darling, Klaus isn't obligated to serve colleagues," Alexander said smoothly. "I have questions for him. Bring champagne, snacks, and whiskey. Klaus, you're not drinking tonight? Juice?"
"Juice, please."
When they were sufficiently alone, Alexander leaned closer.
"I really like this," he said, running a finger along Klaus's cheek. "And this."
His hand moved lower.
Klaus stopped him.
"I don't provide that kind of service."
"Innocent touches," Alexander replied mildly. "Nothing more."
"I would prefer to avoid them."
Alexander slipped several bills under his collar.
"For the inconvenience."
Then he spoke quietly.
"I asked Klara to transfer you here. We're old friends. She warned me your inclinations might not align with mine. But I don't give up easily."
He spoke calmly, confidently — about dominance, about a past lover, about a long-term arrangement. Financial security. Influence. Protection. A future.
"I don't sell my body," Klaus said.
"Don't answer now. Leave with me. Go home and think it over."
Klaus nodded slightly. He wanted to leave.
Outside, Alexander handed him a thick stack of cash.
"Compensation for lost earnings."
Klaus had done nothing wrong.
Yet as he pocketed the money and called a taxi, he felt unclean.
What am I becoming?
A raven launched from a nearby awning, its black wings sweeping low above his head. A blue-black feather drifted down at his feet.
He watched it fall before getting into the taxi.
"I still don't understand where you get that kind of money," Pauoka said the next afternoon.
"That doesn't matter. The result does," Klaus replied.
Later, he met with Andrey and purchased weapons — knives, a tranquilizer pistol, ammunition.
After that, the days grew heavier.
On Friday, Klaus sat staring at his cold coffee.
"Have you ever slept with a man?" he suddenly asked Egor.
The question stunned him.
The conversation that followed only deepened Egor's unease.
That evening, Klaus left the apartment dressed casually — nothing like his work attire.
Egor followed him.
From behind a parked car in the stadium lot, he watched as a tall, confident man stepped out of a silver BMW and greeted Klaus warmly. A young blonde woman followed.
Klaus bowed slightly and kissed her hand.
She blushed.
And Egor, hidden in the shadows, felt something tighten painfully in his chest.