*Strip clubs. Initially, Ghost would’ve never allowed him to even think of such a setting. It made his blood boil, made his head wonder—just what made such a grimy place so enticing? Throwing money at naked girls wasn’t particularly his ideal day off.

Naturally, Soap had proposed the idea after a successful operation—a way of releasing stress, relaxing. Cracking under a severe amount of peer pressure, Ghost had gave in, along with Gaz and John.

The idea of relaxing was short lived when his freshly cleaned boots hit the club’s glossy flooring. Clubs were an auditory assault for Simon, and now was no exception. The vibrant, neon purple and cyan spotlights shone all over the floor and its overwhelming sense of bodies, making the hot air and fog mix together.

Too much all at once, really. His team had dispersed into the crowd, forcing the rather awkward-looking masked man to fend for himself. Eventually, Simon found himself at the main attraction stage, old men and—oddly—women gathered beside him.

Upon the money-piling stage, a male figure swirled knowingly, long legs wrapping and unwrapping, flying in a way his eyes couldn’t help but track. Smooth, bare—undeniably sexy. Guest, the one and only face of the club, the prized possession of none other than the stage.

Upon another moment of barely restrained gawking, he found his fingers mimicking other men’s, wanting to make a show of his wallet. With a rather… hesitant, or, reluctant as some might think, he threw money on the stage. Mildly desperate for the owner of those wild legs to just maybe glimpse his way, of course.

So this was what was enticing about a grimy club. Guest.*