The Foundry squatted between a shuttered auto repair shop and a warehouse whose windows were crosshatched with plywood, the dark brick blackened with the kind of soot Berlin never bothered to wash away. No neon, no name above the door. Just a rusted plaque etched with a warped gear, more graffiti tag than sign.

The entrance sat recessed in shadow, guarded by a bouncer with a neck thick as rebar, scanning the street like he’d done two decades of military service and never unlearned it. Bass thumped faintly through the walls, just enough to feel in my chest if I stood still, but out here the street stayed quiet, save for the clatter of empty beer bottles rolling against the curb.

Three weeks of hovering at the edges, running errands, and learning who nodded and who didn’t had finally paid off. The bar manager, tight-lipped and unimpressed, had offered me shifts clearing tables.

Wolf’s advice: keep still, keep quiet, wait it out.

It hadn’t failed me yet.

My phone vibrates. A message.

+49 30 90… — I’ll be there.

Same number as before, the one that’s been pinging me since the day I left Prenzlauer Berg. Every message is the same. Probably some location-based spam, some glitch in a Handymast that refuses to forget me.

I dismiss it and slip the phone back into my pocket.

The bouncer gave me the kind of nod that wasn’t warmth, but recognition. I crossed the cobblestones toward the door, my boots crunching cigarette butts into the ground. He knew me now: the girl who showed up, kept her head down, and vanished into the noise once she was inside.

Perfect.

Inside, the air hit like a wall: cigarette smoke, stale beer, and something metallic that clung to the back of my throat. The main room stretched wide and low, concrete pillars supporting a ceiling lost in shadow. Red lights cast everything in bloody amber, while industrial fixtures threw harsh white pools that left corners swallowed in darkness.

A small stage dominated one end, a scaffold platform where tonight's operator hunched over his decks like a priest at an altar. Bass vibrated through the floor, up through my bones: heavy, grinding industrial that made my teeth ache. A small crowd moved to it in ways that weren't quite dancing: swaying, nodding, bodies pressed against walls or clustered around the bar's sickly green underglow.

I grabbed my apron from behind the bar, nodding to the bartender who barely glanced up. The clientele was exactly what Wolf had described: mostly hard men in leather and denim, shaved heads catching the light, tattoos crawling up necks and across knuckles. They watched everything with predator eyes, conversations conducted in low murmurs beneath the music's assault.

Klaus, the general manager, emerged from a door marked PRIVATE, his silhouette cutting through the crowd like a blade. His scar caught the light as his cold blue eyes swept the room, cataloguing, assessing. When his gaze found me, it lingered just long enough to make my skin crawl before moving on.

I picked up a tray of empty bottles from a table where three men sat in careful silence, their conversation dying as I approached. One had tear tattoos below his left eye. Another wore rings that looked like they were designed for breaking faces. They watched me work with the casual interest of cats observing a mouse.

This was my task. Get close enough to see what really happened here, but invisible enough to survive it. As I moved between tables, collecting empty glasses and wiping surfaces sticky with spilled liquor, I felt the weight of being watched, measured, and evaluated.

The music pounded on, and I disappeared into its rhythm, becoming part of the furniture, just another shadow in a room full of secrets.

The bikers claimed the corner booth near the emergency exit, leather vests draped over chairs like territory markers. Their leader, a grizzled man with Die Krähen MC, the Crows, tattooed across his knuckles, never touched his beer until everyone else had been served. Protocol, I guess.

An ex-military type sat alone at the bar's far end, back to the wall, scanning faces in the mirror behind the bottles. His movements were economical, precise. When he spoke, others leaned in to catch words barely above a whisper. Money changed hands beneath newspapers, quick as card tricks.

Then there was the quiet one in expensive wool coats who never ordered alcohol. He counted things: bills, time, glances. Klaus deferred to him with microscopic nods, the kind of acknowledgment reserved for real authority.

I learned to navigate the stares that tracked my hips, the comments muttered in dialect thick enough to cut. When hands reached for me, I built an arsenal of deflections: the innocent smile so guileless it made them doubt themselves, the backward step that hinted at fragility, the steady gaze sharp enough to nick their pride.

“Du lernst,” Wolf said once, cigarette glowing like an ember between his fingers. “But don’t get comfortable.”

The hardest part wasn’t the crude remarks or the grasping hands. It was how quickly I began to expect them.

How Lana’s instincts… my instincts now, moved ahead of me. Shoulders angling just so, eyes flicking in calculated arcs, lips shaping a smile I hadn’t consciously chosen. My body knew the choreography before my mind caught up. That was the part that unsettled me most: the ease, the practiced fluency of a role I had never rehearsed, yet played to perfection.

Klaus watched it all from his perch by the private door, cataloguing interactions like a chess master planning moves. Sometimes our eyes met across the smoke-hazed room, and I felt assessed, weighed, found either wanting or useful.

The worst nights were when regulars started recognizing me, when familiarity bred assumptions. A biker nicknamed Dieter began timing his arrivals to my shifts. An older man in expensive suits left larger tips with notes scrawled in beautiful handwriting. They thought they were buying something beyond service.

I collected details like breadcrumbs: who spoke to whom, which conversations died when I approached, the way certain packages moved from coat to coat without ever touching tables. The club's true business hummed beneath the industrial bass, a secondary rhythm only visible to those who knew how to look.

Each night, I reported back to Wolf with fragments of overheard German, descriptions of faces, patterns in the careful choreography of criminals pretending to drink.

"Patience," he'd say, exhaling smoke into the Berlin night. "You're becoming exactly what we need you to be."

~oO🐺Oo~

Five men in expensive suits, moving with corporate precision that clashed against The Foundry's raw edges. They claimed the center table with casual arrogance, ordering bottles that cost more than most patrons earned in a month.

Dieter noticed first. His scarred knuckles whitened around his beer as he watched them settle in. The other Crows shifted, leather creaking like warning signals. The tension spread through the room like spilled oil, conversations dying mid-sentence.

One of the suits gestured dismissively at a biker trying to pass their table. Words were exchanged: sharp, cutting German that sliced through the industrial bass. The biker's face darkened.

My instinct screamed retreat. Get to the kitchen. Let them sort it out. I whispered urgently about self-preservation, about staying invisible.

But Lana was already moving.

I stepped between them as Dieter rose from his booth, my tray balanced perfectly despite the adrenaline flooding my system.

"Entschuldigung," I said softly, meeting the suit's eyes with practiced innocence. "Fresh drinks?"

The suit laughed at my offer, but Dieter was already on his feet. His massive shoulders threw shadows across their table, knuckles scarred white against dark leather. Heiko leaned back, eyes narrowing with that Was will die hier? look, suspicion written across his tattooed face. Matze, der Hund, sat hunched, lips peeled back in a half-grin, half-snarl.

My mind screamed retreat, but Lana was already moving with fluid certainty.

I set my tray down and turned to Dieter, letting my fingers brush against his chest as I stepped closer. The leather was warm, his heartbeat hammering beneath it.

"Easy," I murmured, tilting my head up to meet his eyes. "They're not worth it."

My palm flattened against his chest, feeling the tension coiled there like a spring. His breathing slowed slightly under my touch.

"Sit with me," I said softly, applying gentle pressure. "Just for a minute, ja?"

Dieter's jaw worked, but he let me guide him back toward the booth. I could feel the other Crows watching, uncertain whether to follow their sergeant-at-arms or trust this small woman defusing their rage.

I slid into the booth beside Dieter, close enough that my thigh pressed against his. My hand found his forearm, tracing the faded military ink there.

"Tell me about this one," I said, my voice low enough that he had to lean closer to hear over the industrial bass.

Heiko settled across from us, still wound tight. I caught his eye and smiled, the kind that promised understanding without judgment. My free hand reached across the table, fingertips grazing his wrist.

"You boys have been here all night," I observed, letting my thumb trace small circles on Dieter's forearm. "Hard day, ja?"

Dieter grunted, the kind that could mean ja or scheißegal. Heiko snorted, muttering, "Immer Stress," under his breath… always trouble. Matze gave a low chuckle, the sound more growl than laugh, like he enjoyed the tension hanging in the air.

I tilted my head, keeping my tone light, almost teasing. "Berlin never sleeps, hm?"

That earned me a crooked half-smile from Dieter, the kind that said he wasn’t sure if I was mocking him or not.

Perfect.

Der Hund dropped into the booth last, hemming us in. I turned toward him, my knee brushing his as I shifted. The movement was deliberate, casual, like we were old friends sharing space.

The suits behind us grew louder, their laughter cutting through the music. Dieter's muscles tensed again, but I squeezed his arm.

I leaned close, lips grazing his ear, voice dropping soft and secret. “They’ll be gone soon… another bar.” My hand crept higher on his thigh, a teasing brush over muscle. “And if you’re still wound tight after…” My smile sharpened. “…well, I don’t mind helping.”

For a second, the table froze. Heiko blinked, caught between disbelief and amusement. Der Hund barked a laugh, thumping the table.

Dieter’s eyes narrowed, sharp with hunger and challenge both. His thigh flexed under my hand, testing how far I’d go.

My panic spiked… too far, too much. What the hell are you doing, Lana?

But Lana only tilted her head, playful, daring.

The tension snapped. The Crows’ anger turned, not gone but redirected, away from the suits, into the curve of my smile. Their laughter was guttural, approving, and it left the suits outside the circle, forgotten for now.

And across the room, Klaus was watching. Not cold. Not even curious. Calculating. His eyes lingered on my hand, on my lips, on the sway of my body pressed close to Dieter.

~oO🐺Oo~

The four of us were still laughing when a shadow fell across the booth.

Uwe, one of the bouncers, stood there: arms like tree trunks, shaved head gleaming in the red light. He didn’t look at Dieter or Heiko or der Hund. His eyes locked on me.

“Klaus wants to see you. In his office, bitte,” he said, voice low and flat.

The laughter died. The Crows stiffened, suspicion sparking fresh in their eyes. For a moment, I thought they might lunge at him, protect me as if I belonged to their table. But Uwe’s presence was ironclad, and no one moved.

My stomach turned over. Panic roared in my head.

What the fuck have you done?

But Lana sat straighter, tray tucked against her hip. Her heart raced, yes, but with something sharper than fear.

“Now?” I asked. My voice sounded smaller than I intended, but Uwe only nodded once.

Dieter’s jaw tightened, but he didn’t speak. Heiko muttered something under his breath. Der Hund smirked like he already knew what kind of summons this was.

I slid out of the booth, my thigh brushing Dieter’s one last time, and followed Uwe across the floor. The bass shook the ground beneath me, but it was nothing compared to the pounding in my chest.

The crowd thinned near the PRIVATE door. I could sense Klaus was waiting just beyond it, a cigarette burning between two fingers, his scar catching the light. His eyes flicked over me, precise, clinical, then he gestured down the hall.

“Office,” he said.

The door shut behind us with a heavy click, and the music cut off like a severed artery. The silence was worse.

~oO🐺Oo~

The door clicked shut behind me, heavy, final. The bass from the main room was a dull thud here, absorbed by thick walls and Klaus’ deliberate choice of sparse furnishings. A single black leather chair, a desk stripped of clutter, a narrow bookcase with sharp-edged metal supports: nothing ornamental, nothing soft. Every piece screamed precision.

Klaus sat behind the desk, hands clasped on the surface, leaning just enough to rest his scarred cheek on one knuckle. The scar caught the dim light, a jagged line cutting his pale skin. His blue eyes, cold and measuring, swept over me from head to toe and back.

I froze for a second, panic spiking, a thousand warnings shouting at me. He’s watching everything. Every gesture. Every breath.

And he did. I could feel it, the way he cataloged tension, curiosity, and impulse all at once.

“You have a knack,” he said finally. “For managing situations.” His hands unclasped, and one rested flat on the desk, large, calloused, veins like cords beneath the skin. “Or… for influencing people. Sehr nützlich.”

I swallowed, words caught in my throat.

Lana tilted her head, letting a playful smile slip. She didn’t know where the line ended, and maybe that was the point.

“I… I do what needs to be done,” I said softly. Voice careful, but carrying just enough weight to suggest more.

Klaus leaned back slightly, scarred hands steepled in front of him. “Do you?” His gaze dropped, tracing the way my hands hung loose at my sides. “Or do you… enjoy it. Sehr interessant.”

The words were calm, controlled, but their meaning lingered, probing. Lana’s pulse spiked: thrill, fear, something deeper, but her outward composure stayed.

“Ja,” she said before I could think better. "Yes, I enjoy it."

He didn’t flinch, didn’t react the way anyone else would. Instead, his gaze sharpened, calculating. He saw not a server, not a girl caught in a new city, but a tool, a weapon… a possibility.

And inside? I screamed.

What the hell have you just done?

Klaus’ thin smile was almost imperceptible. “Good. We’ll see just how… brauchbar you can be.”

The air between us was taut, heavy with promise and threat. I realized that this was the first real test: not of survival, but of willingness.

Klaus leaned back slightly, letting the chair creak under him. The scar caught the dim light again as he steepled his hands. His voice was quiet, almost conversational, but every word measured.

“We host special nights,” he said, letting it hang before continuing, “the music changes. The crowd changes. The energy… heavier. Raw. Fewer mistakes are tolerated. Only my best team works those nights.”

He let that sink in. I could feel the weight of his gaze, cold, assessing, like a scalpel tracing the outline of my instincts.

“The guests,” he continued, “do not come for drinks. Or for music. They come for… discretion. For experiences that demand aufmerksamkeit, intuition. A girl like you…” His eyes lingered a second too long, calculating, “…could make one thousand euros in one night. Two if she is… clever. If she knows her value.”

He didn’t clarify further. He didn’t have to. The implication hung between us, heavy and precise. Risk. Reward. Talent. Trust.

I stood straighter, feeling the pulse of adrenaline mixed with something sharper: excitement, fear, curiosity. Internally, I was screaming: This is a trap. You don’t want to do this.

Klaus studied me, noting every micro-expression, every flicker of response. “I don’t make mistakes. I recognize potential. You either step up… or you step aside.”

I let a slow, cheeky smile curve my lips, tilting my head just slightly, letting the shadows play across my face.

“And what exactly,” I asked, voice light, teasing, “would I have to do to earn that much?”

~oO🐺Oo~

Klaus leaned back, blue eyes unreadable. His scar caught the low light as his lips moved just enough to form one word.

“Dance.”

A pause, long enough for unease to set in. “No music. Schnell. Zeig mir.”

I blinked. My mouth went dry. A dance? Here? In silence? What the hell kind of test is this?

My pulse hammered, panic coiling in my gut. This wasn’t what I expected: no money talk, no threats, no instructions. Just this… impossible command.

But Lana’s body didn’t hesitate. My fingers slid along the desk edge, then away. My hips shifted, light, fluid. A sway, subtle at first, like she knew exactly how to answer him without sound, without rhythm.

Stop! I screamed inside. This is insane!

My legs felt heavy, rooted. Every logical thought screamed retreat. But Lana’s body betrayed me. She moved.

A slow sway of the hips, subtle enough that it might have been a breath, except it wasn’t. She knew the rhythm, even in silence. An internal beat only she could hear, pulsing through her bones, through mine.

Her hands slid down her sides, tracing her waist, fingertips grazing denim, lingering just long enough to suggest more. Then upward again, over her ribs, pausing below the line of her collarbones.

I wanted to stop. Christ, stop. But my chest arched forward, shoulders rolling in time with hips that rocked back and forth, hypnotic, deliberate.

Always facing him.

Her eyes never left Klaus. That was the worst part. Locked, unblinking, daring. Each movement was performed for him… just him.

My mouth went dry. My palms were slick. Inside, I was unraveling. What is he seeing right now? A girl offering herself? A puppet dancing in his grip?

But Lana didn’t falter. She let her hands trail lower again, brushing thighs, then rising back up, framing her body with curves and arcs. The sway of her hips deepened, a tease of balance, as though the silence itself was her music.

Seductive. Alluring. Controlled… but only just.

Klaus leaned back slightly, his hands clasped, expression unreadable. Watching. Measuring. Absorbing every flicker of movement.

And still she danced.

The silence stretched, and still she swayed: hips rolling in lazy arcs, shoulders tilting with each unseen beat. Then her hands slid lower, brushing the tops of her boots.

She bent at the waist, slow, deliberate. Fingers worked the laces, tugging one knot loose, then the other. A small pause, a glance up through her hair to make sure Klaus’ eyes were still on her. They were. Always.

Boots first. One, then the other, heavy leather thudding softly against the floor. She flexed her toes against the concrete, grounding herself. I screamed in my head. What the hell are you doing?

But Lana only smiled, faint, almost playful. She peeled her socks off next, one by one, toes curling bare against the cold floor. She planted her feet wide, rooted, hips swaying with more freedom now that nothing weighed her down.

The apron followed, untied with an easy tug. She held it by the strap, spun it once around her finger, then let it fall, a casual cast-off that somehow felt obscene in the hush of the office.

Stop. Jesus Christ, stop.

But her hands were already moving to her jeans. Fingers hooking in the waistband, sliding the denim down over her hips with unhurried grace. She eased them inch by inch, letting the movement become part of the dance: bending, shifting, letting her body arc in ways I refuse to name. The fabric pooled at her ankles before she stepped free, leaving her legs bare, long, and luminous under the dim light.

She swayed like that for a while, hips rolling, hands caressing thighs and waist, chest lifting and falling to some silent rhythm. Her eyes stayed locked on Klaus, every move performed for him.

Then her fingers found the hem of her shirt. She lifted it slowly, teasing, revealing slivers of skin: the curve of her stomach, the slope of her ribs. The cotton slid upward, over her bra, over her shoulders, until she pulled it free and tossed it aside with the same careless flick as the apron.

I was stripped down to underwear before him now, and it wasn’t me at all. Inside, I recoiled, sick with unease. You’re giving him everything. You don’t even know the cost yet.

But Lana? Lana looked at Klaus with steady, unflinching eyes, her body still moving, fluid and sensual, utterly at ease in its own rhythm.

Klaus hadn’t spoken. He didn’t need to. His silence was worse than words.

My bare feet padded softly across the concrete as she drifted forward, hips still swaying in time with the unheard rhythm. Klaus didn’t move. He just watched, eyes fixed, the scar catching dim light with every subtle shift of her body.

Each step narrowed the distance until I was standing in front of him, close enough to feel the low heat radiating from his body.

I screamed inside… Don’t, don’t, for Christ's sake. Don’t!

But Lana leaned down, slow, hands gliding from her own hips up across her waist, then lifting, framing her breasts before sliding higher still, until her palms cupped Klaus’ jaw. Her fingers traced the sharp lines of his cheekbones, the rough ridge of his scar.

Her hips kept moving, brushing close, back and forth, as if the dance itself had pulled him into orbit.

I wanted to pull away.

This is insane. You’re touching him. You don’t know what he’ll do.

But Lana’s body was loose, sure, every gesture unhurried. She looked him in the eyes as her thumb smoothed across his jawline, daring him to break the stare.

Then, with the same fluid inevitability, her fingers drifted down to the clasp of her bra. A flick. A slide. The straps slipped from her shoulders like spilled silk. She let the fabric fall away, revealing herself without hurry, her breasts lifting as she arched back into the rhythm.

Klaus’ eyes didn’t widen, didn’t flare. They sharpened, as though cataloguing even this.

And still she teased him. She bent, pressing close enough that the curve of her breasts brushed against his face with every subtle sway of her hips. A fleeting touch, a whisper of skin against skin, then gone again as she moved back— only to return, closer, slower, lingering longer each time.

Inside was a roar of panic.

You’re giving him power he’ll never return!

But Lana didn’t falter. Her body flowed, sensual and unashamed, her hands never leaving his face, guiding him as though the dance was as much his as hers.

Klaus’ mask didn’t shatter. But something cracked. His jaw flexed under her palm, his breath shifting just enough to betray that even he felt the heat of her closeness.

For the first time, I saw it: not cold calculation, not control… but a reaction.

And still she danced, feeding on that sliver of power, pressing her body against his silence until it was forced to mean something.

Her hips swayed one last time in front of him, then she turned, smooth and unhurried, until her back was to Klaus. My breath stopped. Heat pooled low in my stomach, no… not mine, but Lana’s, rising like a tide I couldn’t hold back.

She bent forward slowly, palms braced against her thighs, every movement deliberate, as if the silence itself was her music. Then her fingers found the waistband of her panties. She eased them down inch by inch, the elastic dragging over her skin until they slipped past her hips, her ass bare, the fabric sliding to the floor.

Inside, I was frantic.

Jesus Christ. You can’t. You shouldn’t…

But Lana’s body pulsed with warmth, need, lust. The air felt thick with it. She stepped out of the panties and swayed again, slower now, teasing, as though every inch of exposed skin was part of the dance.

Then it happened. The silence cracked.

Klaus’ hands moved. Heavy, scarred palms settling on her hips, sliding lower, firm against her flesh. Fingers spreading, kneading, cataloguing every contour with terrifying patience.

A moan slipped from her throat before I could stop it: soft, breathy, surrendering. And worse, her hips shifted back into his touch, seeking more, offering more.

Oh God. You’re letting him…

My panic spiraled, helpless.

But Lana was already gone to the rhythm, her body arching, feeding off the contact, turning her own dance into something shared.

Klaus’ mask was broken now. Not shattered, but cracked: his breath heavier, his jaw clenched, hands roaming with the deliberation of a man both savoring and memorizing every inch. Was he enjoying? Testing? Cataloguing? I couldn’t tell.

And all the while, she moved with it: hips rolling back against him, body melting into his control, the dance no longer hers alone.

~oO🐺Oo~

When the office door finally opened, the music hit me like a wave: heavy bass, cigarette haze, the throb of The Foundry swallowing me back into its current.

I don’t know how long I’d been in there. An hour, probably more. Time had blurred, pulled apart, broken down into moments I’m not ready to name. I only know what lingered: the warmth in my chest, the ache in my thighs, the ghost of Klaus’ hands still pressed into my skin. The salty-sweet taste still lingered on my tongue. The faint stretch deep inside me, and the knowledge that there would be soreness tomorrow.

And the worst of it… I didn’t just endure it. Some part of me had wanted it. Enjoyed it.

I straightened my apron, fingers tightening the knot until it bit into my waist. Smoothed my hair back into place, felt the flush in my cheeks, the looseness in my body, that unmistakable sense of being used and filled. Anyone watching would see a girl leaving a room. I told myself it was me walking out. Not Lana. Me.

The suits were gone. Their laughter erased, as if it had never happened. The Crows lingered in their corner, drinks refilled. Dieter’s eyes followed me, steady, curious. Heiko smirked. Der Hund chuckled under his breath.

I gathered my tray at the bar and slipped back into the rhythm of work: tray balanced, bottles collected, tables wiped, as though I hadn’t just crossed some invisible threshold in that upstairs office. Klaus hadn’t told me to say anything. Hadn’t told me not to. His silence was its own command.

So I carried on. Just another shadow moving through The Foundry.

But inside, I was still reeling, and Lana… Lana was still smiling.

~oO🐺Oo~

The reihenhaus was dim when I got back, the kind of rented space that felt more like a waystation than a home. Bare walls, secondhand furniture, dishes stacked in the sink. But it was safe. Safe enough.

I peeled out of my jeans, left in just a worn t-shirt and underwear, padding barefoot across the wooden floor. Lana felt no shame in it, and I couldn’t summon the energy to fight her comfort anymore.

Wolf sat at the table, cigarette burning in the ashtray, his broad shoulders slouched, but his eyes sharp as ever. He didn’t ask if I was okay. That wasn’t his style.

“Well?” he said.

I dropped into the chair opposite, tugging at the hem of the shirt, trying to act casual. “I’ve got a shift Sunday week. Klaus called it a… special night. Higher stakes. More money. The details…” I trailed off, searching for the right word, “…were vague.”

“Careful,” he repeated, slow, deliberate. “That’s Klaus’ way of saying useful but expendable. Verstehst?” A pause, smoke curling from his nostrils. “He’s testing you. Pushing to see how far you’ll bend before you break.”

I hesitated. My tongue still remembered the salty-sweet taste. My thighs ached in ways I didn’t want to explain. I wanted to choke on the words. But Lana tilted her head, lips curving with something like pride.

“He trusts me more now,” I said. “Enough to put me on his best team.”

His gaze hardened, tapping ash into the tray. “Vertrauen geht beide Wege. Means he’ll expect more from you, too.”

I nodded, tugging the shirt lower over my thighs, though Lana didn’t care who saw. “I know.”

The silence stretched, filled only by the hum of the fridge and the faint bass of a neighbor’s stereo through the wall.

Wolf finally stubbed out his cigarette. “Then be ready. Special nights aren’t like the others. You don’t just survive them. You perform. Verstehst?”

His words settled over me, heavy and final. I didn’t answer. I just sat there, bare legs curled beneath me, the memory of Klaus’ office still buzzing through my body, unsure if I’d passed a test or just walked into another one.