Oliver nodded and offered his arm.
We approached a group near the bar first—two women and a man whose body language read as open and relaxed. Oliver introduced us as newcomers curious about the community, and they welcomed us with enthusiasm. The taller woman said she’d been coming here for two years. The man was newer, brought in by his girlfriend. They talked about the events and the sense of belonging they’d found.
“That’s wonderful,” I said when she paused for a breath. “We’ve been looking for a place like this. Somewhere safe and established.”
“Oh, it’s very safe.” She nodded vigorously. “Management takes it seriously.”
“That’s good to hear.” Oliver leaned in and spoke in a lower tone. “We actually heard there might have been some kind of incident here a few years ago. We wanted to check the place out before committing.”
Her companion’s hand tightened on his glass, and the warmth drained from her face.
“I’ve not heard of anything like that,” she muttered.
“No? Someone mentioned?—”
“I’ve never had a problem.” She turned to her companions with a smile that didn’t reach her eyes. “We should go check on our friend.”
They were gone before Oliver could respond.
We exchanged a glance at what seemed like an overreaction.
We tried again with a man standing alone near one of the observation areas. His hair was gray, his watch expensive, and he had an authoritative bearing. He was friendly at first, happy to explain the different spaces and equipment available for use.
“The private rooms are excellent,” he said. “Soundproofed, well-equipped. You can book them for the evening or just a few hours.”
“That’s good to know.” Oliver steered the conversation with the ease of long practice. “We want to find the right fit. A place with a solid reputation. No scandals, no drama.”
“Every club has history,” he said before excusing himself and disappearing into the crowd.
We retreated to the bar for fresh drinks. This time, I skipped the vodka and opted for lemon and tonic.
“Interesting pattern of deflection,” I commented. “As the man said, every club has history.”
Oliver’s eyes scrunched. “Which means there’s a story here.”
I scanned the room a second time, and the hair on the back of my neck bristled. The energy had changed in the last hour. Everything seemed darker, more charged. The music seemed louder and the shadows deeper. The faces around us had become less distinct, as though everyone had donned masks since we arrived.
Beneath that general unease, a different sensation prickled through me. The weight of someone’s eyes on us.
I’d been trained to recognize surveillance. Years of fieldwork had honed the instinct until it was as reliable as any of my other senses. Most people couldn’t identify the feeling consciously—they grew uneasy withoutunderstanding why. But what I felt at the base of my skull was unmistakable.
The attention wasn’t casual, and it wasn’t the idle curiosity of strangers noticing newcomers in their space. This focus was intentional. Someone was tracking us.
Rather than trying to spot whoever it was, I shifted closer to Oliver, letting my lips brush his ear as though I were sharing an intimacy.
“We’re being watched.”
His body didn’t tense, and his expression didn’t change. “Where?”
“Elevated position, maybe. Above and to the left.”
“The observation level?”
“Possibly.”
“Coincidence? New faces attract attention.”
“No.” The sensation was too intense. “This feels targeted. Like whoever’s watching doesn’t want us here, and not because we’ve been asking questions.”
