The elevator doors slid open silently.
A blond young man stepped out, greeted by a long hallway lined with dark red carpet.
On either side, closed wooden doors sported gold-plated room numbers, gleaming under the warm, suggestive lighting from above, crafted to ooze intentional luxury.
The air carried a mix of high-end perfume and alcohol, with faint, muffled laughter and the clink of glassware slipping out from behind some of the doors.
Dio raised an eyebrow, unfazed.
This place felt less like an upscale club and more like an over-decorated karaoke lounge trying too hard to mimic high society.
His gaze flicked to the end of the hallway, where a massive oil painting hung. It depicted a penguin in a monocle and a comical tuxedo, dramatically raising a champagne glass. Below, in ornate cursive, it read:
"Welcome to Iceberg Lounge!"
"Tch."
Dio's internal critique was merciless: Tacky taste.
But as he pulled his eyes away, his peripheral vision caught a man leaning against the wall halfway down the corridor.
The guy was lanky, dressed in a cheap, ill-fitting suit with a crooked tie, puffing on a cigarette with visible irritation.
The moment Dio's figure came fully into the hallway's light, the man froze, his movements halting.
Like he'd just seen something completely unexpected.
"You… you're the new guy?"
The man's voice shook as his eyes darted over Dio's face, lingering on his striking blond hair.
Dio didn't respond, just narrowed his eyes slightly.
Something was off.
This guy didn't seem like he was here to interview staff. He looked like he'd just seen a ghost.
Before Dio could dig deeper, the lanky man stubbed out his cigarette like it burned him and rushed forward.
"Perfect! You're exactly the kind of talent we need!"
"Come with me! The boss can't wait!"
He spoke so fast Dio barely had time to react before the man turned and hurried deeper into the corridor, practically jogging.
Dio's eyes darkened, hesitating for a split second before following.
Let's see what kind of game they're playing.
The two wove quickly past identical, ornate doors, turning corners until they stopped at a heavy metal door that looked out of place amid the lavish decor.
The man glanced over his shoulder, wiping sweat from his brow. He took a deep breath and knocked lightly.
"Manager," he called, his voice suddenly dripping with deference. "The next interview's here."
A muffled, low grumble came from inside, too indistinct to make out.
Seconds later, the door flew open. A bloodied man was tossed out like a ragdoll, landing hard at Dio's feet.
Two burly men in black suits and blank expressions stepped out next, each grabbing an arm of the barely conscious guy and dragging him away down the corridor like a sack of trash, silent and efficient.
The lanky man barely blinked, glancing at the bloodstains on the floor before leaning close to Dio. His voice was low, a mix of reassurance and warning. "Don't worry, you're good-looking enough. You won't end up like him."
Dio stepped over the drying blood without a flicker of emotion and followed the man inside.
The room was dimmer than the hallway, lit only by a few yellowish wall sconces casting a faint glow.
The air was thick with a complex stench: heavy cigar smoke, sharp cheap cologne, the cloying tail of expensive perfume, and… a faint, fresh whiff of blood.
Seven or eight black-clad bodyguards lined the walls, hands clasped, sunglasses on, standing like lifeless statues.
Directly across from the door, a wall of monitors displayed countless split-screen feeds, showing every corner of the club like cold, unblinking eyes.
In front of the screens, a massive black leather sofa held an equally massive figure, facing away from the door.
Bang!
The heavy door slammed shut behind Dio.
Two bodyguards flanked it.
"I'm Ignatius Ogilvy, manager here," the man on the sofa said, his voice a gravelly rumble, thick with smoke and whiskey. "Kid, if Rokoman brought you here, you'd better be ready. He probably told you—if you're ugly—"
He turned, but the moment his eyes landed on Dio's face, his words choked off.
Shock flashed in his eyes, quickly replaced by the gleeful look of someone who'd just struck gold.
"You… damn! You're too perfect for this line of work!"
His earlier menace vanished, replaced by the giddy excitement of someone who'd stumbled onto a fortune.
Dio stood stone-faced.
He wasn't entirely sure what the man meant, but he knew now wasn't the time to show weakness.
With a slight nod, he said evenly, "So, can we get to work?"
Caught off guard by Dio's calm, Ogilvy burst into laughter, his jowls shaking.
"Hell yeah! Let's do this!"
In high spirits, he waved dismissively at the lanky man. "You, take him to 312. Lady Elana's been waiting."
Dio gave a curt nod and turned to follow the guy out.
But just as he reached the threshold, Ogilvy called after him. "Hey, kid, what's your name?"
"Di—" Dio caught himself mid-word, realizing it wasn't smart to use his real name. "Diego."
"Diego, huh?" Ogilvy chewed on the name, chuckling. "Alright, Diego, do your thing. Tonight's your trial run. After you're done with the esteemed Lady Elana, report back to me in three hours."
Dio's brow twitched almost imperceptibly.
Reception?
Wasn't he here for that cool-sounding "king" gig he'd read about? He'd looked it up online—high-end clubs like this usually meant "king" referred to the DJ running the show or some kind of stage performer…
Why the hell was he receiving anyone? Who was he supposed to receive?
The question barely formed in his mind when the lanky man, now leading him down a quieter stretch of hallway, leaned in and spoke in a low, knowing tone, tinged with pity and caution.
"You know what a male host does, right?"
What?!
Dio's steps froze.
The words male host hit like a triple lightning bolt, exploding in his brain.
High pay, strict appearance standards, the so-called "king"…
Son of a—
A cold fury mixed with the absurd sting of being played surged from his gut to his head.
The "king" wasn't some stage-dominating DJ or a slick bartender calling the shots…
They wanted him to be a damn gigolo!