She arrives at the club

Two days of "instruction" with Silva had turned her into a puppet of nerves and conditioned reflexes. Every time a man raised his hand near her, Magi fought the instinct to flinch, forcing instead a tense smile and a slight head tilt that no longer felt like her own. The black dress had become an alien second skin, one that smelled of cheap perfume and cold sweat.

The unmarked van stopped in a back alley, a block from Ébano. The driver, an anonymous agent, didn't even look at her.

"Good luck," he muttered, and the doors opened with an ominous click.

The contrast was violent. From the anonymous cold of the vehicle to the oppressive, warm atmosphere of the club. Ébano was a box of velvet and shadows. The light was so dim that she stumbled over her own high-heeled feet—an additional last-minute requirement—barely illuminating the outlines of deep armchairs and low tables where men in expensive suits and watches worth more than her year's salary conversed in low voices. The air smelled of expensive cigarettes, aged ****, and a dense, sickly sweet perfume that clung to her palate. Soft, pulsing electronic music beat like the artificial heart of the place.

And the stares. From the moment the bouncer saw her—an imperturbable giant who scrutinized her from head to toe before nodding dismissively—she felt eyes on her. Stares that swept over her like scanners, evaluating, pricing. They were not looks of desire, but of possession. She was a piece of meat on the market, and they were the buyers.

"Walk toward the bar. Slowly. Sway your hips, remember," Costa's voice in the micro-implant was a metallic, cold whisper in her brain, making her shiver.

She obeyed. Every step in the heels was ****, an exercise in balance over the abyss of her own panic. She sat on a leather stool, feeling the coldness of the material transfer through the thin silk of the dress to her skin.

"Order a drink. Champagne. Only wet your lips."

"A champagne, please," she managed to say to the bartender, whose gaze was as impersonal as a vending machine.

An older man, with slicked-back hair and a suit that shimmered in the dim light, approached before her drink arrived.

"Haven't seen you around here before, darling," he said, his voice a silky murmur. His hand, cold and dry, settled on her bare back, right where the dress ended.

Magi fought the urge to jump. Silva's fingers seemed to be burning the back of her neck.

"Smile. Respond. Don't freeze."

"It's... my first night," she managed to articulate, forcing her lips into what she hoped was a seductive curve and not a grimace of terror.

"Ask him what brings him here. If he's here to do business or to forget it."

"Are you here to... do business or to forget it?" she repeated like a parrot, sensing the absurdity of the question.

The man laughed, a dry, humorless sound.

"Business is never forgotten, beautiful. It's just... negotiated at different tables." His hand slid down her back a little further. Magi felt nauseous. "And you? What do you negotiate?"

"Say you're new in town. That you're looking for... opportunities."

"I'm new. I'm looking for... opportunities," she murmured, looking at her glass of champagne where the bubbles rose and burst like her courage.

The conversation continued, an empty exchange of double entendres and lewd glances. Magi took minuscule sips of her drink—only sparkling apple juice—while the man drank whiskey. He talked about boats, properties, trips to exotic places. Names, dates, amounts that sounded like money. Information. But trivial. Nothing about laundering, nothing about suspicious capital flows. Just the empty bragging of a bored rich man.

"Ask him about his partners. Who benefits from his... astute dealings."

"And your partners?" she asked, trying to sound flirty. "Are they also so... astute?"

The man looked at her with suspicion for a second, his eyes narrowing. Then, the smile returned, faker than before.

"My partners are discreet, sweetheart. As you should be." His hand squeezed her waist more forcefully, almost painfully. "Discretion is a highly valued virtue here."

It was a rejection. A wall. Magi felt a pang of frustration mixed with relief. Maybe he would leave now.

But he didn't leave. He stayed, bought another round—for himself—and his hand never left her body. He touched her arm, played with a strand of her hair, his leg brushed hers under the table. Each contact was an electric shock of revulsion. Magi smiled, nodded, laughed when it seemed appropriate, all while Costa's voice in her ear whispered constant orders, criticisms, adjustments.

"Lean forward a little more when you laugh."

"Hand on his arm, don't push him away."

"Ask about the nightclubs he frequents. Where he spends his leisure time."

It was an exhausting and degrading choreography. She felt like a drone, a body governed by an alien will, smiling and accepting caresses in exchange for scraps of useless information. She saw other women in the club, some with smiles as empty and fixed as hers, others with a confidence that seemed monstrous. Were they all on a mission? Or was this simply their life?

After what felt like an eternity, the man stood up, leaving a crumpled bill under his empty glass.

"It's been an... educational evening, beautiful. I hope to see you again." His final look was a slow, possessive sweep of her body before he turned and disappeared into the shadows.

Magi slumped against the back of the stool, exhausted. The dress was sticking to her sweaty back. The micro buzzed.

"Report. What did you get?"

"Nothing," she whispered into the air, feeling ridiculous. "Nothing useful. He talked about boats, trips..."

"Names. Give me names."

She repeated the few names she remembered. An entrepreneur, a minor politician, the name of a yacht.

"Insufficient. Circulate. Find another target. The one in the white jacket at the round table. Now."

Magi finished the rest of her "champagne," the apple juice sour in her mouth. She looked toward the table Costa indicated. Another man, another smile, other hands that would soon be on her. She stood up, mentally adjusting the mask, and began to walk, feeling that every step was taking her further away from herself and deeper into the role of a ghost dressed in black silk in the ebony market.