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He gestures me into a room the size of a small classroom and twice as sterile. A bank of wall monitors dominates the back, each flickering with feeds from every conceivable angle in the club. At a long counter, two operators in matching polo shirts type and click with the bored vigilance of NASA ground control. Not a stray hair or loose thread on either of them.

“Jesus,” I mutter, sweeping the room. “You think you’ve got enough security?”

Roman smiles, his lips pulled into a tight line, a hint of tension beneath the surface. "There’s never enough. You wouldn't believe the threats we get," he says, his voice carrying a mix of exasperation and amusement. "Blackmail, political activism, your garden-variety psycho. Just last year, we had an actual priest break in, searching desperately for a parishioner who had strayed from his spiritual path."

"If you aren't pissing off at least one organized religion, you're doing the whole sex club thing wrong," I quip, a wry smile playing at the corners of my mouth.

Roman gestures toward the array of monitors that flicker with a steady stream of data. "Everything's encrypted. No recording, no archives, unless the law demands it. Privacy is gospel here," he assures, his tone firm and resolute.

One of the operators, a woman with the lithe build and poised stance of an Olympic fencer, flicks her eyes toward me, assessing. Roman acknowledges her with a slight nod as a silent communication passes between them.

“This is Cara, my day-shift supervisor,” he says. “She doesn’t miss a thing.” She ignores us while staring at the large screen in front of her.

The other operator is younger, a kid with a buzzcut and a crisp posture screaming “first job out of college” vibes.

“This is Joran,” Roman claps him on the shoulder as the younger man turns to give me a nervous nod.

Roman leans over his shoulder, his eyes fixed on the screen, and points to a specific security feed. “Keep a vigilant watch tonight for our illustrious mayor. I need to know the exact moment he attempts to swipe his membership card.”

“Has he been stirring up trouble?” I inquire, curiosity piqued.

Roman shrugs, a slight frown creasing his brow. “He’s a persistent thorn in my side, and I’m doing my best to minimize any potential risk.”

He turns to me, dropping the CEO voice for the first time. “All this expensive hardware helps but nothing replaces good instinct which is why I hired you to take over as head of security.”

He’s not wrong. In my time running security for Steel Pulse, I saw fans climb twelve-foot fences, crawl through crawlspaces that would suffocate a rat, and—my personal favorite—hide in the luggage compartment of a tour bus for nine hours with nothing but a protein bar and a signed headshot for company. I got stabbed once in Tulsa by a guy who thought my jacket was “too corporate.” If there’s a rule in personal security, it’s this: paranoia is a full-time job.

Roman gestures again, and I follow him out.

He leads me down a back staircase, each step padded with industrial-grade rubber. We hit the basement, which is about as far from the opulent lobby as you can get. Cement floors. Strip lighting. More doors, most with palm scanners.

He pauses at one, plants his hand on the panel, and the door snicks open with a hiss.

Inside we find more screens, another operator, this one older and dressed in a tactical vest that’s seen real use. On the far wall, an honest-to-god gun locker containing a neat row of sidearms, a couple non-lethals, and what looks like a defibrillator for good measure.

Roman doesn’t bother with introductions this time. “We rotate shifts. Three teams. Nobody works more than a twelve, ever.” He eyes me sidelong. “We learned the hard way.”

I don’t need to ask. Burnout is a given in this field and no one wants to deal with that shit.

He walks me through the the entire security setup with four panic buttons, two in public, two hidden in the staff-only zones. There are biometric locks on all storage and access points and an alarm system that pings directly to a private response contractor before it even wakes up the local cops.

I can’t help myself. “Fuck. You’re ready for just about anything.”

“It pays to be prepared.” He moves us through a side door into a narrow passage. Every fifteen feet, another security camera blinks at us letting me know every angle is covered.

We emerge into a loading area where two staffers are unloading what I’m ninety-nine percent sure is a shipment of sex toys, judging by the box art. The woman in charge barks at the guy, who drops a crate and fumbles to pick it up, red-faced. Roman just watches, amused.

“Have you started missing tour life?” he asks, suddenly nostalgic. “The chaos, the bullshit, the noise?”

I shake my head flashing back in my mind to my last night with Steel Pulse. During the show, a fight broke out in the pit sending three people to the hospital, a group of women in matching bras climbed the lighting rig to flash the band, and the goddamn lead singer decided to crowd-surf naked. I had to leap offstage and catch him, midair, while dodging a hailstorm of joints and sweaty bralettes.

“Not really,” I say. “I hated living my life waiting for the train wreck you know is coming.”

He nods, as if he expected that answer.

Up another set of stairs, we hit the kitchen. Not the greasy spoon operation I’d expected, but a chef’s wet dream. I glance around at the gleaming steel appliances and racks of expensive wine bottles. There’s a guy in whites slicing up strawberries and I’m not sure if he notices us, or just doesn’t care.

“We cross train all our staff,” Roman says, gesturing around. “No single point of failure. Everyone can step in to help in an emergency. Even the chef knows the panic code.”