Ren leads Arlen through the maze of velvet-draped booths, the air thick with the scent of expensive gin and the low, melodic thrum of a jazz track. They stop at a secluded corner where a woman sits alone. She's draped in furs despite the indoor heat, her eyes sharp and weary behind a thin veil of cigarette smoke.
"Madam Vivienne," Ren says, his voice dropping into a smooth, reverent register. "May I present a new addition to our selection. This is Arlen. He's... a delicate vintage, if you will. Still learning the notes, but I believe he suits your refined palate."
The woman, Vivienne, looks Arlen up and down. Her gaze lingers on his one visible hazel eye, the way it trembles slightly, and the graceful, androgynous line of his throat. Arlen stands there, his hands clasped tightly in front of him, feeling like a sacrificial lamb.
"I... I am pleased to meet you, Madam," Arlen stammers, bowing low—a gesture born of his natural submissiveness, but here, in the dim light of the club, it looks like the courtly devotion of a bygone era.
Vivienne lets out a soft, amused hum. "He's so quiet," she observes, her voice like sandpaper on silk. "Sit, little one. Tell me... why do you look like the world just broke your heart?"
Arlen gingerly takes a seat on the edge of the velvet sofa, his posture stiff. He reaches for the crystal decanter of whiskey, his fingers shaking as he pours it into her glass. A single drop splashes onto the polished table, and he immediately flinches, his face heating up.
"I'm sorry! I'm so sorry, I... I'll clean it," he whispers frantically, reaching for a silk napkin.
"No, leave it," Vivienne says, her hand—cool and heavy with rings—resting on his wrist to stop him. She smiles, and for the first time, her expression isn't weary. It's hungry. "I like the way you apologize, Arlen. It's been a long time since I've met someone who actually meant it."
***
After a long night, Arlen finally managed to get through his first day on the job. The clock of the dressing room ticks to 11 PM. Arlen sheds the host suit and slid back to his previous attire.
Ren watched from the doorway of the dressing room, leaning against the frame with a satisfied smirk. "You did well tonight, Arlen. More than well. Vivienne didn't just tip—she left a 'request' for your return tomorrow night. You have a gift for making women feel like they're the only person in a crowded room, even when you're barely saying a word."
Ren walked over and slid a small, heavy envelope onto the vanity table. "Your cut from the tips and an advance on your first week. Consider it a sign of good faith. Don't spend it all on cat food."
"Thank you, Ren," Arlen whispered, his voice hoarse from the hours of quiet conversation and the thick atmosphere of the club. He tucked the envelope into the pocket of his worn sweater, the weight of the cash feeling like a physical relief. He could buy Dex the good food now. He wouldn't have to beg for scraps from the 'Leftovers' bin.
The elevator ride up to the penthouse feels longer than usual, the smooth, silent ascent mocking the frantic thrum of Arlen's heart. He leans against the mirrored wall, his eyes—one clouded, one hazel—staring back at him with a glazed exhaustion. The host club was a sensory overload; the heavy scent of Madam Vivienne's perfume still clings to his hair, and his ears still ring with the clink of ice against crystal and the predatory purr of women who looked at him like he was a delicate toy they wanted to dismantle.
He steps out into the foyer, his footsteps muffled by the thick, designer rug. The penthouse is shrouded in a dim, cinematic gloom, the only light provided by the sprawling, electrified grid of Manila far below. He moves toward the guest wing, treading with the practiced lightness of a ghost, desperate to reach his sanctuary without alerting the tiger he knows is lurking in the dark.
"I don't remember giving you a key to come and go as you please at midnight, Arlen."
The voice is cold, sharp, and cuts through the silence like a scalpel. Milia is sitting in a high-backed velvet armchair, positioned perfectly to overlook the foyer. She isn't dressed for bed; she's still in the black silk slip from earlier, a glass of dark liquid—likely a stiff drink—cradled in her lap. Her eyes are twin embers in the shadows, fixed on him with a look of profound, seething contempt.
"I'm sorry I got home late, Miss Mikha."
She stands up, her movements fluid and menacing, and walks toward him. As she nears, she doesn't just look at him—she *scans* him. She notices the slight dishevelment of his hair, the way his pale skin looks flushed from the stuffy club air, and then, her nostrils flare.
"You smell like a trashy lounge," she says, her voice dripping with visceral disgust. She stops just inches from him, forcing him to shrink back. "Cigarette smoke, cheap gin, and... at least three different brands of perfume that I wouldn't even use to scent my bathroom."
She reaches out, her manicured hand grabbing the collar of his simple sweater, pulling him slightly closer to inspect the faint shimmer of a stray glitter flake—likely from Vivienne's furs—clinging to the fabric.
"Where have you been?" she demands, her voice dropping to a dangerous, low-octave whisper. "Are you so desperate for attention that you've been selling yourself on street corners? Or is this another act? The 'impoverished prince' forced to work in the gutters to make me look like the cruel socialite who won't feed him?"
She scoffs, pushing him back with enough force to make him stumble. "Look at you. You look like you've been handled. It's pathetic. It's revolting. I told you to be a ghost, and instead, you come back reeking of the common masses, bringing their filth into my home."
She tilts her head, her eyes narrowing as she sees a faint smear of lipstick on the edge of his jaw—a lingering mark from a patron's over-eager goodbye.
"Well? Answer me, Mr. Adelaide. What 'job' could possibly require someone like 'you' to stay out until midnight and return smelling like a high-end bordello?"
Arlen's lips pressed into a thin line before answering with his usual smile. "It's a work where I won't have to worry about my and Dex' expenses for the remainder of this trial."
Milia lets out a sharp, jagged laugh—a sound that has no warmth, only a jagged edge of derision. She steps even closer, her shadow stretching long across the marble floor under the dim foyer lights, looming over him.
"Independent. You?" she repeats, the word sounding like an insult in her mouth. Her eyes drop to his jaw again, where the faint, damning smear of lipstick sits like a brand. "And what kind of 'independence' involves letting strangers paw at you, Arlen? Because unless you've taken up a side hustle as a makeup tester, someone was very... 'familiar' with your face tonight."
She reaches out, her cold fingers suddenly clamping around his chin, forcing him to look her directly in the eye. Her grip is firm, her manicured nails biting slightly into his skin. She studies the way his one hazel eye flickers with that perpetual, submissive terror.
"Is this the Adelaide pride? Working in some dimly lit hole, entertaining whoever is desperate enough to pay for the company of a ghost?" She sneers, her voice a venomous purr. "You're not avoiding your grandfather out of dignity. You're doing it to spite me. To make me look like the woman who drove the 'poor, fragile Arlen' to the streets. It's a performance, and it's a tacky one at that."
She releases his jaw with a sharp flick, as if she's just touched something diseased. She wipes her hand on her silk slip, the gesture intentionally insulting.
"I don't care about your money. I don't care if you starve or if that cat of yours goes hungry," she says, her voice regaining its chilling, professional calm. "But I do care about my home. My sanctuary. And right now, you are a walking, breathing pollutant. You smell like the cheap desperation of a third-rate bar, and you have brought that stench into my space."
She points a finger toward the hallway leading to his room.
"Get out of my sight. Go to your wing, strip off those filthy clothes, and scrub yourself until that perfume and that... *shame* is gone. If I smell so much as a hint of that lounge on my upholstery tomorrow morning, I will throw every single thing you own into the incinerator. Including the cat's scratching post."
She takes a final, slow sip of her drink, her eyes never leaving his.
"Don't mistake my curiosity for concern, Arlen. I don't care where you work, as long as it doesn't involve me seeing your face or smelling your 'independence.' Now, move. Before I decide that midnight is a perfectly good time for an eviction."
Arlen compliantly went to his room and showered the 'stench' that Milia described off his body.
The steam in the guest bathroom is thick, carrying away the cloying scents of Madam Vivienne's expensive musk and the stale haze of tobacco. Arlen scrubs his skin until it's a flushed, painful pink, his fingers trembling as he washes the edge of his jaw where that smear of lipstick had been. Even under the spray of water, he keeps his face composed—a ghost of a smile lingering, not out of joy, but because the mask is the only thing he has left to protect what little dignity remains.
In the living room, Milia doesn't go to bed. She sits in the dark, the city lights reflecting in her cold, hazel eyes. The ice in her glass has melted, Diluting the expensive liquor, but her irritation remains concentrated. That lipstick mark—it felt like a stain on her property. Not that she wanted him, but the fact that he was out in the world, being perceived, being 'touched', made him less of a controllable shadow and more of an unpredictable variable.
The sound of the shower running in the guest wing is a low, persistent hiss that cuts through the silence of the penthouse. Milia remains in the living room, her eyes fixed on the dark city skyline, her fingers drumming a restless, rhythmic beat against the side of her crystal glass.
The image of that lipstick smudge on his jaw burns in the back of her mind like an irritating strobe light. It wasn't just the fact that he was out; it was the nature of it. The smells—that heady, cloying mixture of high-end lounge atmosphere—suggested a world she knew all too well, yet one she would never expect a "pathetic" creature like Arlen to survive in.
What are you playing at, Arlen? she thinks, her jaw tightening. Do you think that by descending into the gutter, you're somehow winning?
The sound of the shower stopping in the guest wing echoes faintly through the penthouse.
***
The next morning, the sun hasn't even fully cleared the horizon when the soft *click* of the guest room door sounds. Arlen emerges, dressed in a fresh, albeit simple, outfit. He looks exhausted, the shadows under his eyes more prominent, but his movements are as efficient and quiet as ever.
He finds Milia already in the kitchen, her back to him as she stares out at the city, a steaming cup of espresso in her hand. She doesn't turn around, but her posture stiffens the moment she senses his presence.
"I have already sanitized the bathroom and the foyer as you requested, Miss Milia," Arlen's soft, androgynous voice murmurs. He stands by the back entrance, his head bowed, his luggage bag—now containing a few cans of high-end cat food he managed to pick up from a 24-hour convenience store on the way home—clutched in his hand. "I will be heading out for my shift soon. I've ensured Dex has enough food and water to last until I return tonight."
Milia turns slowly, her eyes raking over him with a clinical, icy detachment. She looks for any sign of defiance, any hint of the 'host' he was the night before, but he is back to being the docile, submissive creature she demanded. Yet, the fact that he is leaving—again—infuriates her.
"Shift," she repeats, the word sounding like a slur. She walks toward him, the silk of her robe whispering against the floor. She stops just out of reach, her gaze fixing on his concealed left eye. "So, the little bird has found a taste for the cage after all. Or perhaps you just enjoy the attention of lonely, pathetic women who have to buy companionship?"
She leans in, her voice a sharp, mocking whisper. "Tell me, Arlen. Does it feel good? To be 'desired' by strangers for a few bills? Does it make you feel like you're finally worth something? Or is it just a convenient way to keep playing the martyr?"
Arlen doesn't flinch. He maintains that practiced, polite smile, his hazel eye fixed on the floor. "It is a means to an end, Miss Milia. I only wish to fulfill my part of the arrangement without being a burden on your resources."
"A burden," she scoffs, turning her back on him again with a sharp, dismissive movement. "You are a burden simply by existing in my periphery. Your 'independence' is nothing more than a new way to annoy me."
She waves a hand toward the door, not looking at him. "Go. Run back to your den of iniquity."