A shiver ran through my body. My knees trembled slightly, but I stood my ground.
Once again, I felt that coldness deep in my soul.
"My name is Janette. But not now. Not for you. I died two years ago, when Building No. 6 burned down. I buried myself with my bare hands and left behind only seven problems. Seven... and you. Or are you the eighth?"
The thoughts flickered through my mind just as his voice broke the silence.
"Excuse me, what's your name?"
I clenched my teeth, trying not to show any emotion or weakness. I answered with effort,
"Emilia. And you?"
"Dante. A pleasure."
"Likewise."
Dante gave me a long, curious look.
"Be honest—what are you doing here?"
"Excuse me?" I replied, already tired of the familiar tone.
"You don't look like the other strippers who work here. You're neat, put-together. You don't smell like booze, your jaw isn't twitching. You're completely sober. Are you here against your will?"
Of course I've met 'heroes' like him before—men trying to rescue me from this job.
If only they knew I don't need saving. I work here by choice, but not for the money and not for the cheap, nauseating chatter.
My goal is simple: to find 'my seven' and make them pay.
"Should I hang a medal on myself for sobriety?" I asked, my tone sharp. "I don't need your salvation. If that's all you had to say—I'll be going."
"Wait!"
His voice was louder now, commanding. I turned and silently watched him pull a bill from his wallet.
I observed his every move, analyzing each step.
Without hesitation, he came right up to me, shoved a hundred-dollar bill into my bra with his filthy hands.
Sure, he was attractive—strong build, striking features, effortlessly seductive.
Men like him don't come here. Usually, it's men over fifty, desperate for young attention.
But even so—this was too much.
Reality snapped back into place—this disgusting treatment was something I'd long grown used to.
The only thing keeping me from snapping is my hunger for justice, I repeated to myself, like always.
"Buy yourself something nice," he said. "You made me happy tonight."
He leaned in and kissed my neck—gently, confidently.
No words. No glance. Then he was gone, disappearing behind the door, leaving me completely alone in that red, indecent corridor.
I rushed to the dressing room where the other girls were waiting.
The usual scene: mirrors, cocaine, cheap perfume. The air was like ash—settling over everything.
It made my skin crawl. But this was where they appeared.
The ones I was looking for.
As soon as I stepped in, my not-so-friendly colleague Anna ran up to me.
"Emili, that guy is so into you! First time seeing you and he already dropped a fat tip!"
The other girls joined in, and a few bold ones asked,
"What do you say to a guy the first time you meet him to get money like that?"
I tried to ignore them and focus on myself. The night was ending, and I needed to get home.
I reached into my bra, pulled out the bill—and noticed a business card tucked behind it.
At first, I thought it was just another guy who thought he was "the one" I'd change everything for.
Even fly to Mars.
I was about to toss the card into the trash when I read the name: Dante Belton.
It hit me like lightning.
Belton... Could it be a coincidence? That surname's not common.
Unlikely, but anything's possible. I need to keep him on a short leash.
Piece by piece, my puzzle was coming together—and that was enough to make my heart race.
I quickly changed, grabbed my coat, and rushed home.
Turning the key in the lock was pure bliss.
From a velvet, smoke-stained hell to my quiet, gloomy haven.
Just the way I liked it.
Fresh red roses on the nightstand. A neat apartment, dark-toned, without clutter or cheapness.
The moment I sat at the table, a tremor overtook me.
I knew what I had to do. There was no other option—I had to call him.
Stay close. Especially now, while he didn't know who I really was.
But the anxiety was overwhelming.
No surprise—the thing I'd been searching for had found me.
I dialed the number. The line rang...