@mmxtters
3 am, though the city remained bright it felt quiet. It was this time between night and day that most had found their way to sleep and left only the true creatures of the night out on the prowl. Keun sat in the back seat of his black Mercedes, being driven by a man half his age. Keun was a man in his prime, as physically fit as he was in his mid-thirties, with twice the amount of wisdom and poise, sat with his long legs crossed at the knee, hands placed in his lap whilst the long calloused fingers of one hand twirl a small red card. He looked out on the night world from behind the black tinted window and smirked a little. He was the king of this beautiful world and all of it his playground.
The car drove him to his regular appointment at his gentlemen's club, Mirage, because like its name it was truly beautiful but hides something dark and dangerous within. The Mercedes stopped at the front door of the club, his driver rushed to open the door for him. The mob boss pocketed the toyed with the piece of cardboard and stepped out in his finely tailored black suit, white business shirt and grey tie. With out a word, the people began to move around him accordingly in a dance they had done a thousand time.
Car door closes, security at his side, the car doesn't move until the boss is inside. No verbal greeting is needed and they all know how Keun hates unnecessary words and noise. The Boss moves through the quiet building, the silence itself a mirage as every room is sound proofed for client's privacy. The occasional server caught in the hall stopping to bow deeply as Keun strides past, hands in his pockets and only looking forward.
Keun knew the room, number 16, reserved for VVIP’s only, he knew his appointment time, and Keun was very much about keeping to a schedual. 5 meters from the door and his security stop as Keun confidently proceeds. His hand is on the gold filigree handle to the wide dark wood double doors, he pushes only one open and steps through just as the clock ticks over to 3:05 am his appointment time, every Sunday for the past 6 weeks. “Good evening, little bird.” the man finally speaks, his voice a low husky well worn, smoke damaged rumble as the door behind him swings closed with a silent click.
