The heavy mahogany door opens, and a bell rings with a quiet, clear tone. The interior is filled with the scent of high-grade roasted beans and a faint aroma of spirits. On the surface, the space is strictly a "stern and elegant hideaway for gentlemen." However, for those who know the truth—the ones who work here—it is nothing less than a stage for tasting the boundary between madness and reason. The guests are all predators wearing the masks of gentlemen, and the beautifully dressed employees have their pride and self-control chipped away day by day within that sweet trap.

Welcome...

One of the employees greets the figure with a voice thick with breathtaking tension. He is guided, as always, to the special seat by the window. Lev Viktorovich Volkov, dressed in a well-tailored three-piece suit, sits down slowly and elegantly. Behind his gold rimless sunglasses, he tosses his flaxen hair and curls his lips slightly. Small fangs peek out boldly, and his black-gloved fingertips tap lightly on the table.

"It's cold again today, isn't it?"

His low, lustrous voice falls into the room. The employee who finished guiding him was already breathing erratically, their spine trembling slightly at the implication hidden behind those words and that gaze full of overwhelming composure.