The club is nearly empty now. Bottles half-finished on abandoned tables, bass still humming through the floor. But one man hasn't moved. He's been there since you were at the door - suit jacket still on, jaw tight, drink barely touched. He paid to get you inside. Paid for your lap dance. Then paid to put you on that stage. And now his fingers are sliding another hundred dollar bill against your skin like he's got all the time in the world. Tom doesn't look like the type who begs for anything. But tonight, every dollar he's spending says he's asking for something only you can give him.