Three weeks since that night in the basement, and I could still feel the buzz of that room beneath my skin. Three weeks of ordinary shifts at The Foundry, wiping tables, dodging wandering hands, and watching the familiar rhythms of Klaus's operation unfold above ground. The Crows still held their corner booth. The regulars still nursed their beers. The music still pounded industrial heartbeats through concrete and steel.

Nobody mentioned what had happened downstairs. Not Klaus, not Uwe, not even the Dom when I glimpsed him nursing a beer at the far end of the bar one Tuesday night.

It was as if that basement stage existed in a parallel dimension, accessible only through specific invitations that hadn't come again.

I told myself I was relieved. My rational mind catalogued this as a return to safer territory: observation without participation, intelligence gathering without... complications. But Lana stirred restlessly beneath the surface, her attention sharpening whenever Klaus's gaze lingered a moment too long, whenever footsteps echoed near the stairwell that led down.

The routine had become almost numbing. Arrive at ten, change into the standard black uniform, navigate the smoke and bass until three in the morning. Watch. Listen. Remember. Report back to Wolf empty-handed: the same faces conducting the same careful transactions, nothing new to analyze or decode.

Tonight felt different, though. I'd noticed it in Klaus's posture as he worked the room, the way his eyes tracked certain patrons with renewed interest. A tension in the air that reminded me of that special night's charged atmosphere. The basement stairs seemed to pulse with possibility, drawing my gaze despite myself.

As I cleared glasses from a recently vacated table, I caught Klaus watching me from across the room. His expression was unreadable, but something in his stance suggested wheels turning, plans forming. The familiar weight of anticipation settled in my stomach: part dread, part curiosity, entirely Lana's doing.

~oO🐺Oo~

By the time the last song bled into silence, only the diehards remained, smoke hanging low, beer flat and forgotten. The staff were moving through the familiar choreography of closing time. The music had downshifted from its earlier aggression to something deeper, more hypnotic: the kind of bass that crawled under your skin and settled in your bones.

I was stacking glasses behind the bar when Uwe materialized beside me, his bulk casting a shadow across the polished metal surface. He moved with that same silent efficiency I'd grown to associate with impending summons, his expression neutral but purposeful.

"Klaus wants to see you," he said, his voice cutting through the diminished crowd noise. "Office. Now."

My hands stilled on the glass I was holding. Three weeks of waiting, of watching Klaus's calculating gaze track my movements, and now the call had finally come. The familiar knot of anticipation tightened in my stomach: equal parts dread and something else I didn't want to name.

"Now?" I asked, though I already knew the answer.

Uwe's nod was curt. "He doesn't like to wait."

I set down the glass and untied my apron, movements automatic despite the electricity crackling along my nerves. The Foundry felt different in these final hours, more intimate somehow. The shadows seemed deeper, the remaining patrons more watchful.

As I walked toward Klaus's office, I caught a glimpse of the basement stairs in my peripheral vision. They seemed to pulse with remembered possibility, the memory of stage lights and watching eyes sending heat racing through Lana's veins. She stirred beneath my surface thoughts, anticipation sharpening her awareness like a blade being whetted.

The familiar hallway stretched ahead, leading to Klaus's door and whatever waited beyond it. My footsteps echoed against the concrete, each click of my heels marking time like a countdown to something I couldn't quite name but felt approaching with the inevitability of a tide.

My phone buzzed in my hand.
+49 30 90… — I’ll be there.

Same number. Same message. No timestamp delay, no missed call log. Just there, waiting, as if it had been listening for the echo of my steps.

I locked the screen without reading further. The vibration lingered in my palm like a phantom pulse.

Then I kept walking.

~oO🐺Oo~

I knocked twice, sharp and clean, then pushed the door open without waiting for permission. The sound didn’t crack like it usually did; it thudded, muted, as if the walls themselves were listening.

Klaus stood in front of his desk, leaning back against its edge with an ease that felt calculated. Everything about the scene struck me as wrong, or at least unexpected.

His usual armor of precision had been stripped away: no jacket hanging on the chair's back, no tie perfectly knotted. Instead, his white shirt hung open nearly to his sternum, sleeves rolled up to reveal forearms marked with old scars I'd never noticed before.

The sight stopped me in the doorway. I'd grown accustomed to Klaus as an immaculate figure of control, every thread in place, every gesture deliberate. This version felt more dangerous somehow, raw in a way that made my pulse quicken.

"Leave the door open, Lana."

His voice carried the same authority, but something underneath had shifted. Less formal. More intimate.

The office felt smaller tonight, the air thick with cigarette smoke and something else.

Klaus watched me with those calculating eyes, but there was heat there now, barely contained. His shirt fell open further as he shifted, revealing more of that pale, scarred chest.

"Four weeks,” he said, almost idly. “I was beginning to think you’d forgotten our... arrangement."

The words hung between us, loaded with implication. Lana stirred beneath my surface thoughts, responding to the promise in his tone, the predatory stillness of his posture.

Klaus's gaze traveled slowly down my body, pausing at the modest black dress, the simple flats, the understated makeup. His expression didn't change, but something in his eyes sharpened with what might have been amusement.

"You're overdressed," he said simply.

The words landed with a jolt, simple and final, as if they’d struck somewhere behind my ribs. No explanation needed. No room for misunderstanding. Lana's pulse hammered against the collar of my dress, understanding immediately what my mind still scrambled to process.

I glanced back at the open door, the hallway beyond where sounds of the club's closing routine continued. Staff moving equipment, muffled voices, the distant clatter of bottles. Anyone could walk past. Anyone could see.

Klaus followed my gaze, then returned his attention to me with that same predatory stillness.

"The door stays open," he said, answering the question I hadn't asked. "Unless you'd prefer to leave?"

Lana’s body moved before I could stop it… a decision made somewhere below thought, quick and absolute.

My fingers brushed the hem of the dress, hesitated for the smallest fraction of a second, then lifted. The motion felt both alien and practiced, like following choreography learned in another life.

The fabric slid upward, soft against my skin, catching briefly at my shoulders before peeling free. Air touched me in its wake, cool and electric. The faint scent of smoke and leather filled the space between us. I heard my own breath, shallow and quick, loud in the stillness.

The dress fell from my hands and landed soundlessly on the floor, dark as the concrete beneath the stage. I stood there, pulse hammering, trying to tell myself this was still observation: that I was recording, analyzing, deciding. But my body wasn’t listening. It had already chosen its side.

The air in the office felt suddenly cold against bare skin. Klaus's eyes never left mine, even as I stood there in nothing but underwear, the open doorway behind me a constant reminder of how exposed I was.

He studied me for a moment, expression unreadable. Then: “Better. But not quite there yet.”

Klaus's voice cut through the charged silence, each word precise as a blade.

"To the table."

The words sliced through the air. No please. No question mark. Just expectation wrapped in authority that made Lana's spine straighten before I could think to resist.

My bare feet found the cold concrete; its roughness grounded me even as everything else slipped. The table smelled faintly of metal and old ink, papers scattered across one corner. I approached it like walking toward an altar, aware of Klaus's eyes tracking every movement.

"Hands on the edge," he continued, his voice following me across the small space. "Wide apart."

My palms met the cold metal with a soft slap, fingers spreading instinctively to brace against the surface. The position forced my body forward, arching my back, making me acutely aware of how little the remaining fabric covered.

"Feet apart. Wider."

I shifted my stance, the concrete rough against my soles. The position felt vulnerable, exposed, everything in me screaming that this was too much, too visible. Through the open doorway, I could still hear the distant sounds of the club winding down.

I tried to catalogue the details: the scrape of his boots, the faint click of a ring against metal… anything to keep the situation in the realm of data, not sensation.

Klaus began to circle, his footsteps measured and deliberate. I felt his gaze like heat against my skin, cataloguing every curve, every tremor, every sign of surrender. When he passed behind me, the air seemed to thicken.

"One last thing," his voice came from directly behind me now, close enough that I could feel the warmth of his breath. "Do not take your hands off that table until I tell you to."

The words settled over me like shackles, and I felt my pulse move to their rhythm.

A tug at my hip, sudden and deliberate. Fingers hooked into the elastic waistband, and something cold pressed against the fabric. Metal. A blade!

The tension stretched for a heartbeat, then snapped with a soft pop as the elastic gave way.

Instinct flared. My right hand shot out to catch the falling underwear before I could stop myself.

SMACK!

Klaus's palm cracked across my ass with shocking force, the sound echoing off concrete walls. Heat bloomed instantly, a stinging burn that made me gasp and arch involuntarily. My hand flew back to the table's edge, fingers gripping metal as if it were the only thing anchoring me to earth.

"I'm sorry," I whispered, the words tumbling out breathless and small. "I'm sorry, I…"

"Gut."

One word, clipped and satisfied. The heat from his handprint pulsed against my skin, a brand of correction that somehow felt more intimate than punishment.

Klaus moved to my other hip, and I felt the cold kiss of metal again. This time, I kept my hands planted, knuckles white against the table's edge, even as every instinct screamed to cover myself. The blade sliced through elastic with surgical precision.

The ruined underwear fell silently to the floor.

Cool air kissed everywhere, and I was completely bare now, completely exposed. The open doorway yawned behind Klaus like a mouth, the hallway beyond a throat that could swallow any pretense of privacy. Anyone could see. Anyone could witness this moment of absolute vulnerability.

My breath came in shallow bursts, each exhale visible in the suddenly frigid air.

~oO🐺Oo~

Klaus remained behind me, his presence a wall of heat and control. The silence stretched, filled only by the distant sounds of the club's closing routine and my own unsteady breathing.

Then his hand touched my back.

Not rough, not demanding. Just his palm settling between my shoulder blades, fingers spread wide. The contact sent electricity racing down my spine, every nerve ending suddenly awake. His hand traced slowly downward, following the curve of my spine, mapping the muscles that spread out from either side.

My body responded before I could think to stop it. A soft sound escaped my lips: half gasp, half appreciation, something between surprise and hunger that I couldn't take back.

Christ, what was that?

But Lana knew exactly what it was. Her body arched slightly, pressing back into his touch with an eagerness that made my mind reel. The motion was subtle but unmistakable: invitation, surrender, a wordless plea for more.

Klaus's hand continued its journey, palm warm against the curve of my ass, fingers tracing the heat that still bloomed from his earlier correction. When he reached the sensitive skin between my legs, I felt my breath stop, every muscle in my body going taut with anticipation.

The touch was light, exploratory, but it might as well have been lightning. Heat pooled instantly, a rush of sensation that made me grip the table's edge harder, knuckles gone white against the metal.

Klaus's fingers traced lower, circling with deliberate precision that made my entire body sing. Each stroke sent shockwaves through nerve endings I'd never known existed, electric currents that pooled somewhere deep and demanding in Lana's core.

Stop! Think! Analyze…

But thought dissolved under the relentless exploration. His touch was methodical, patient, mapping every sensitive ridge and hollow with the same calculated attention he brought to everything else. My legs trembled, fighting to maintain the wide stance he'd commanded.

"Sehr schön," Klaus murmured, his voice a low rumble of approval that vibrated against my spine. "You respond beautifully."

One finger pressed deeper, probing, and I bit down on a moan that threatened to echo through the open doorway. My knuckles turned white against the table's edge, the only anchor keeping me from collapsing under the assault of sensation.

Another finger joined the first, stroking in slow circles that built pressure like a storm gathering force. Each caress pulled involuntary gasps from my throat, sounds I couldn't suppress even as my mind screamed about the exposure, the vulnerability, the complete surrender of control.

The rhythm intensified. Klaus's free hand settled on my lower back, holding me in position as his fingers worked with surgical precision. I felt myself climbing toward something inevitable, my body betraying every rational thought with its eager response to his touch.

"The door," I managed to whisper, the words barely audible.

"Ja," Klaus agreed, his voice carrying dark amusement.

His fingers retreated suddenly, leaving me hollow and aching. For a moment, I thought it was over— that he'd made his point, proven his control. Relief and disappointment warred in my chest.

Then I felt something else. Warmer. Broader. The blunt head of his cock pressed against me, radiating heat like a brand.

My breath caught. Every nerve ending that had been singing under his touch now screamed with new awareness. The pressure was insistent but patient, letting me feel the weight of what was coming.

"Bitte," I whispered, though I wasn't sure if I was begging him to stop or continue.

Klaus's hand tightened on my lower back, holding me steady. "You want this," he said, not a question but a statement of fact that cut through my scattered thoughts. "Your body tells me everything."

He was right. Despite the panic clawing at my rational mind, Lana's body had already answered. The slick heat between my legs, the way my hips tilted back toward him. Betrayals I couldn't deny.

His cock pushed forward slightly, just enough to make me gasp. The stretch was foreign, overwhelming, nothing like the careful exploration of his fingers.

Through the open doorway, I heard footsteps in the hallway. Someone moving equipment, boots heavy on concrete. They could walk past at any moment. See everything.

Klaus seemed to sense my tension. His free hand traced my spine again, soothing even as he maintained that maddening pressure. "Don't worry about them," he murmured against my ear.

He pushed deeper, slow and relentless, and I felt every inch of the invasion. The stretch burned, foreign and overwhelming, yet Lana's body welcomed it with a hunger that terrified me. Her hips tilted back instinctively, accepting more, always more.

"Gut," Klaus murmured, his voice thick with satisfaction. "More?"

I could sense the grin spreading across his face even though I couldn't see it. The pleasure in his voice was unmistakable: not just physical, but something deeper. Pride of ownership. The satisfaction of watching Lana's body bend to his will, of feeling her squeeze around him with need.

Each movement sent shockwaves through nerve endings I'd never known existed. My fingers gripped the table's edge, the only anchor in a storm of sensation that threatened to sweep away every rational thought.

Klaus withdrew almost completely, then thrust forward again, deeper this time. The sound that escaped my throat was raw, primal, echoing off the concrete walls and out through the open doorway. Anyone in the hallway would know exactly what was happening.

"Listen," Klaus breathed against my ear, his hand sliding up my spine to grip the back of my neck. "Listen to how much you need this."

He was right. Every gasp, every involuntary arch of my back, every desperate squeeze of Lana's muscles around him betrayed the truth I couldn't deny. My body had become an instrument of desire, playing Klaus's tune with perfect pitch.

The rhythm built steadily, each thrust driving deeper, harder. Klaus's breathing grew ragged behind me, his control fraying at the edges. I could feel his pleasure in the grip of his hands, the tremor in his voice when he whispered commands I couldn't quite hear over the rushing in my ears.

"Ja," he groaned, his movements becoming more urgent. "So tight... so perfect..."

And despite everything: the exposure, the humiliation, the complete surrender of control… I felt it too.

The pleasure building like pressure in a dam, threatening to burst. Lana's body responded to every thrust with desperate hunger, chasing something just beyond reach.

Even I couldn't deny it anymore. Beneath the panic and analysis, beneath the desperate attempt to maintain some distance from what was happening, it felt good.

Overwhelmingly, impossibly good.

~oO🐺Oo~

A voice cut through the rhythm like a blade through silk.

“Already sampling, Klaus?”

The accent was faint. Central European, maybe German, maybe not, but the authority was unmistakable. Each word carried precision, control. Klaus froze mid-thrust. The air thickened; even the smoke seemed to hesitate.

Klaus's grip on my neck tightened reflexively before he pulled back, leaving me hollow and aching. The sudden absence of pressure made my legs tremble against the table's edge.

"Scheisse," Klaus muttered under his breath, his voice tight with frustration and something that sounded almost like... fear?

I kept my hands planted on the metal surface, afraid to move, afraid to look. The voice echoed in my mind, familiar in a way that made my skin crawl with recognition I couldn't quite place. Had I heard it before? In the basement that night, perhaps? A whisper in the shadows while I floated in subspace?

Footsteps approached with measured precision. Heels clicking against concrete in a rhythm that felt both foreign and disturbingly familiar. The sound of her heels wasn’t loud, yet each step erased more of Klaus’s authority. By the time she stopped behind me, the room belonged to her.

"Entschuldigung," Klaus said, his voice carrying a deference I'd never heard from him before.

The woman's presence filled the doorway behind me like smoke, invisible but undeniable. I could feel her gaze cataloguing every detail of my exposed position, my trembling legs, the evidence of Klaus's interrupted claiming.

When she spoke again, her voice carried amusement laced with steel.

"Bitte, by all means, continue. I’d hate to think I arrived just in time to stop the fun… or the damage."

Klaus muttered something under his breath, a string of German expletives that I felt rather than heard. His hands fell away from my body so quickly it was as if I'd burned him. I heard the soft sounds of him making himself presentable: the rustle of fabric, the whisper of a zipper, the quick adjustment of clothing that spoke of practiced urgency.

"Entschuldigung, gnädige Frau," Klaus said again, his voice carrying that same uncharacteristic deference. "I was merely... assessing..."

"Assessing." Her voice lingered on the word, tasting it, amused. "Is that what we're calling it now?"

I remained frozen against the table, every muscle locked in place. My hands gripped the metal edge so tightly my knuckles had gone white. The position Klaus had commanded felt suddenly absurd, exposed, vulnerable in ways that had nothing to do with pleasure and everything to do with being caught.

My body still trembled with interrupted arousal, nerve endings firing in confused patterns. The absence of Klaus's presence behind me felt like a physical void, leaving me hollow and aching and desperate for something I couldn't name.

But I didn't dare move. Didn't dare turn around. Didn't dare do anything but remain exactly as I was, bent over the table like an offering, while these two predators circled and spoke about me as if I weren't even there.

Some detached part of me started cataloguing details: the cut of her voice, the precision of her German, the way even Klaus’s breathing changed. Whoever she was, she ranked above him. Far above.

The sound of her heels resumed— measured and deliberate, each step weighing the distance between us. I could feel her attention like a weight against my exposed skin, cataloguing, evaluating, deciding something that would shape whatever came next.

“What’s her name?” she asked, the amusement in her voice almost polite. “Tell me, Klaus… are all your evaluations this… intimate?”

The question hung in the air like smoke from a lit cigarette. I could hear Klaus shifting behind me, fabric rustling as he straightened his clothes, muttering something under his breath that sounded like a prayer or a curse.

"Lana," Klaus replied, his voice stripped of its usual authority. "And nein, gnädige Frau. This was... an exception."

"An exception." The woman's heels clicked once against concrete, a single, precise note of skeptical percussion. "How wonderfully spontaneous of you, Klaus."

The sarcasm in her voice could have cut glass. I felt Klaus tense behind me, could practically hear him calculating responses, weighing words before they left his mouth. This wasn't a conversation between equals.

"Entschuldigung," Klaus said again, the deference in his voice almost painful to witness. "I will be more... disciplined in the future."

This was fascinating: the man who commanded everyone in this place now answered like a chastened schoolboy. Whoever she was, the hierarchy seemed to bend around her.

A soft sound escaped the woman. Not quite laughter, but close. "Oh, I'm sure you will." Her footsteps moved away from me, closer to Klaus. "Now then. I'd like to have a chat with Lana here. In private."

The pause stretched like a held breath.

"Oh, and Klaus?" Her voice carried the weight of dismissal wrapped in silk. "Do close the door on your way out."

The latch clicked. For a moment, the silence felt absolute, as if the whole club were holding its breath, waiting to see what she’d do with me next.

~oO🐺Oo~

"No need to stay in that position."

Her voice carried warmth beneath its authority, a gentle dismissal of Klaus's commands that felt like permission to breathe again. I straightened slowly, feeling the ache in my spine as I unfolded from the bent posture. My hands left damp prints on the metal desk edge.

Standing upright felt strange after the vulnerability of that position. I rolled my shoulders, working out the tension that had settled there, then stretched my arms overhead. The motion pushed my chest forward, and the absurdity of stretching naked in a stranger's presence hit me all at once.

Heat rushed to my cheeks as I caught myself mid-stretch, arms still raised, completely exposed. I gave her a sheepish smile, feeling ridiculously self-conscious. Here I was, stark naked in Klaus's office, acting like I was in my own bedroom.

"Sorry," I murmured, lowering my arms. "That's... probably not very professional."

For the first time, I got a proper look at her. She was younger than I'd expected from the authority in her voice: mid-to-late twenties, perhaps. Strikingly beautiful in an understated way, with dark hair and intelligent eyes that seemed to catalog every detail. She wore simple, elegant clothing that spoke of expensive tastes without screaming for attention.

But there was something else. Something that nagged at the edges of my memory like a word on the tip of my tongue. Had I seen her before? The shape of her face, the way she held herself… it all felt disturbingly familiar, though I couldn't place where or when.

The recognition sat just out of reach, frustrating and elusive. But one thing was clear: despite seeming so young, she bent Klaus’s will without raising her voice. A quiet authority that left no doubt who ruled this room..

She extended a slender hand with manicured fingers, the gesture both elegant and oddly formal, given my current state of undress.

“Seline,” she said, voice carrying that calm authority Klaus had faltered under. No last name, no title, just the word itself, dropped into the silence like a stone in still water.

I hesitated, suddenly aware of my nakedness in a way that felt unlike Klaus’s clinical assessment. Her gaze measured me: analytical, precise, but without the hunger that had marked his attention.

“I do apologize for Klaus’s… enthusiasm,” she said, lowering her hand. Her accent hinted at somewhere European, hard to place, sophisticated.

“He is… a blunt instrument, when left unchecked.”

The description carried dry amusement, but also a dismissiveness that made Klaus's earlier authority seem trivial. Whatever hierarchy existed here, she was at the summit.

"He has his uses, of course," she added, studying me with those intelligent dark eyes. “Occasionally, my company finds a need for his… spezielles talent. But subtilität has never been his strength.”

My company.

The phrase was deliberately vague, revealing nothing while implying everything. The kind of careful language that spoke of layers beneath layers, organizations that preferred to remain unnamed.

I found my voice, though it came out smaller than intended. "Your company?"

Seline regarded me with quiet interest, her expression unreadable. “You’ve adapted well,” she said at last. “Most people who end up in places like this… don’t.”

I gave a small shrug. “The Foundry teaches you fast. Either you learn the rhythm, or you drown in it.”

Her smile was faint, knowing. “Yes. Klaus can be… instructive in his own way. But it is not only him, is it? This environment reshapes people. Pressure and heat… very alchemical conditions.”

Alchemical conditions?

She continued smoothly. “Different elements combined under stress until something new emerges. Stronger. Less… ordinary.”

Her gaze lingered a moment too long before drifting away, as if she caught herself studying me too closely.

“You wear it well,” she added, tone light again. “This place. The uniform. The role. Not everyone does.”

I gave a small, uncertain smile. “Hardly the uniform you had in mind, I’m guessing.” My hands twitched slightly at my sides, self-conscious. “Though… I suppose pretending is my specialty.”

“Mm.” Her eyes met mine: sharp, almost kind. “A useful skill. Sometimes pretending is the only way we become who we are meant to be.”

Silence followed, comfortable yet taut, filled only by the low hum of the club bleeding through the concrete walls.

Then Seline glanced toward the door, decision made. “Come with me,” she said, voice soft but carrying no hint of suggestion. “We can talk somewhere more comfortable.”

My throat felt dry. “I… appreciate the interest, but it’s getting quite late.” The words came out weaker than intended, Lana’s breathless tone betraying any attempt at firmness.

“I have another job in the morning. Early start.”

The excuse sounded pathetic even to my own ears. A transparent attempt to buy time, to escape the room and whatever proposition she was building toward.

Seline’s smile was patient, knowing. She had heard every variation of hesitation, every weak deflection. “Of course,” she said simply, turning toward the door with fluid grace. “How thoughtless of me to keep you.”

Relief surged as she reached for the handle. Maybe I could slip away, return to the reihenhaus, process this in safety—

"I wasn't giving you a choice, Alan."

The words hit like ice water. My name. My real name, spoken with casual certainty that made my blood freeze. Seline's hand rested on the door handle, but she didn't turn around. Didn't need to see my face to know the effect those words would have.

The careful fiction I’d built around Lana crumbled. Every instinct screamed that she’d always known. And then came the words: my name, spoken with casual certainty.

Alan—

My blood ran cold.