He doesn't smile, but there's a flicker of something in his expression—amusement, maybe, or approval.
"Our clients value their privacy," he says, his tone measured and deliberate. "Many of them are public figures, executives, or individuals with unique circumstances that require confidentiality. You will be required to sign a non-disclosure agreement before beginning work. Violation of that agreement will result in immediate termination and legal action."
"Got it. No Instagram posts."
This time, he definitely almost smiles.
"Precisely."
He taps the tablet again. "The position is three nights per week, midnight to 3 AM. You will be assigned to a single client on a rotating schedule. The work is physically demanding. Our clients often present with chronic pain, severe muscle tension,and—" He pauses, choosing his words with the kind of care that suggests he's had this conversation before. "—non-standard anatomical structures."
I blink. "Non-standard anatomical structures."
"Correct."
"Like... what? Extra ribs? Scoliosis? Extreme muscle hypertrophy from bodybuilding?"
"Something like that," he says, his expression giving away nothing. "Apex Wellness specializes in serving a clientele whose physical needs fall outside the scope of conventional wellness facilities. We cater to individuals whose anatomical presentations require specialized knowledge, discretion, and a high degree of professional adaptability."
The way he says it makes my bullshit detector start screaming again, but there's also something in his tone that suggests he's being deliberately vague for a reason. Like he's testing to see if I'm going to push for details or just accept the job description at face value.
I decide to push. Just a little.
"When you say 'non-standard anatomical structures,' are we talking about medical conditions? Genetic variations? Or something else?"
Mr. Voss regards me for a long moment, his expression unreadable.
"We serve a diverse clientele," he says finally. "Some of our clients have unique physiological characteristics that require specialized care. You will receive detailed briefings on each client's specific needs before your first session. What I need to know is whether you are comfortable working with clients whose physical presentations may differ significantly from what you encountered in conventional spa environments."
"I've worked with clients who have severe scoliosis, fibromyalgia, chronic pain conditions, and post-surgical scartissue," I say. "I'm used to adapting my techniques to individual needs."
"Excellent," he says. "That adaptability will serve you well here."
He slides a piece of paper across the table. "This is the compensation structure. Five hundred dollars per session, paid immediately after each shift. Five thousand dollars signing bonus upon completion of your first week. Health insurance is provided after thirty days. There are also performance bonuses for client retention."
I look at the paper. The numbers are real. They're right there, printed in clean black ink.
$500 per session.
$5,000 signing bonus.
I could cry. I don't, because I'm sitting across from a man who looks like he's never experienced a human emotion, but I could.
"If you are interested," Mr. Voss says, "we can schedule your practical assessment for tomorrow night. Same time. You will meet your assigned client and demonstrate your skills. If the client approves, you will begin regular shifts immediately."
"Tomorrow night," I repeat.
"Yes."
I should ask more questions. I should ask about the non-disclosure agreement, about the "non-standard anatomical structures," about why this clinic operates exclusively at midnight and serves clients who apparently can't go to a normal spa. I should ask about a dozen red flags that are currently waving in my brain like a parade.
Instead, I say, "I'm in."
Mr. Voss nods. He stands, extending a hand across the table.
"Welcome to Apex Wellness, Ms. Beck."
I shake his hand. His grip is firm, professional, and ice-cold.
