Chapter Text
What time is it?
Orange light pours through the large windows of the meeting room. The soft, orange light seeping through the large windows bathes the conference room. Artificial orchids, their plastic petals forever frozen in bloom, adorn the table. With the money they make, they could buy real ones.
Sinking into his plush leather office chair, he tilts his heavy head against the backrest and closes his eyes. The room's hushed atmosphere amplifies even the minutest details, drawing him away from the broader perspective. He sighs.
Signs of sleep deprivation. Nothing new.
The migraine that keeps griping his temples with its steel arms shatters the little respite he can gain in this large, empty room.
The migraine's vise-like grip on his temples shatters the small respite in this vast, empty room. In front of him, a long and sleek table is adorned with a multitude of chairs identical to his own. The plastic orchids and water bottles sit, still as the dead, in the center of the table. But the displaced chairs hint at the frenetic energy that typically permeates this space, now subdued by the soft, late afternoon light.
The businessman retrieves a pristine handkerchief from an inner pocket of his blue pinstripe suit and opens a tiny bottle in front of him. He tilts the neck towards the fine silk fabric and checks his silver watch.
8:00 pm. I'll have to work overtime.
It has almost become a joke between him and himself. An old memory of a time when a few bits of evening could still belong to him. Five years later, money had claimed it.
Nanami sighs and puts the bottle back before placing the handkerchief on his tired eyes. Not only does he hate it, but he's going to have to squander his precious time with one of his crooked clients.
Clark Wagram. Rich man's son, rich man's father, and insatiable pig.
He rubs the cool cloth against his eyelids and grunts with relief for a second. The water running down his temples and pooling in transparent beads at the tips of his hair washes away some of his discomfort. The lingering migraine has a way of obliterating even the faintest moments of reprieve.
Wagram has just bought a bankrupt paper company. By promising to "save" the factories, he was able to secure the purchase for a dime.
Fortunately , he won't have to go that far: a small clause in the contract that he carefully examined (and proposed to add) authorizes the businessman to " adjust the workforce and production " if he deems it necessary. Once he has liquidated all the stocks, machines, and buildings, he can set his sights on a new structure in search of a savior.
Help the richest to get richer. Well done Nanami, mission accomplished again tonight.
And this success, the trader can savor it all evening. Wagram has planned to take the whole team - including himself obviously - to Caféine , the most exclusive strip club in Paris. The den of businessmen in suits, as much addicted to the girls of the club as to the drink that allows them to make their dark circles profitable.
Coffee in the morning, Caféine and cocaine at night. Gojō would be delighted to run into him in a place like this, he too a servant of the king 金.
The headache starts again.
He sighs, rests his neck against the top of the back of his chair and closes his eyes for a moment. He has but one desire tonight: silence. Go back to his apartment, open the windows on the polluted and blue city. No screen, no music. Just the roofs, the rows of trees that outline the streets, and the starless sky.
A booming laugh ruptures the silence, threatening to consume the little calm he can salvage in this vast, empty room.
The headache starts its relentless grip anew. He grunts, turns his head to face the source of the disruption, and wipes his damp handkerchief over his tired eyes. Riquet greets him with a mischievous glint in his eyes.
“Nanami... His boss pokes his balding head through the doorway, leaning against it as armpit sweat stains his navy shirt.
Are you planning to dream away the evening? No, no... your carriage awaits, Your Highness ! " he teases, theatrically placing a hand over his chest.
Nanami, feigning indifference, stands and moves mechanically towards his boss. He barely flinches when Riquet playfully slaps his back with a hearty thud.
Ahead lies purgatory, a journey through a rather upscale French restaurant, an establishment he might have appreciated under different circumstances. Lamb legs and roasted chickens adorn the tables, as if plucked straight from a medieval feast. Nanami, sinking into his crimson leather bench, is ensnared in the enthusiastic celebration of the financiers around him.
"The gem of our team ! A genius move since the SPB liquidation ! they exclaim, raising their glasses in praise.
Nanami nods, offering his gratitude with a modest smile, engaging as little as possible in the boisterous conversation. He slowly sips his glass of red wine, wary of another refill, and tries to become inconspicuous, hidden behind the entrecote and grilled vegetables on his plate.
Fat laughter fills the room. The business men are finishing to stuff their dessert down their throat, by justifying "my wife is not there".
Amidst the joviality, Nanami's headache persists, intensified by the artificial yellow light. He contemplates the need for a trip to the bathroom, but isn't sure he'd find the strength to return.
Wagram raises his glass in a final toast, spilling half of its contents onto the pristine tablecloth. Nanami drops him a tense smile, and it is the sign for the king of the party to finally set sail.
"Gentlemen, let's go! And Nanami, don't think you can finish this glorious evening without a laugh!"
In the cabs that take them to the club, tongues are loosened. One speaks about other businesses, other successes. A little less of their personal life. Their laughter resounds in the car, do they know how to speak without shouting?
Nanami glazes at the Seine listening beyond the cab window, and hopes without conviction that this driver brings him back home.
The entrance of the club is a formality: Wagram and Riquet are regulars. Nanami usually escapes such places, but tonight, it seems impossible. Thus, he enters the vibrant, red and silver interior of Caféine for the first time.
His eyes need a moment to adjust to the dim lighting, anonymizing the clientele. The music, while too loud for his liking, carries a seductive jazz tune that warms the atmosphere.
There are about twenty people in the club. Confidentiality makes the success of this place. A few insiders, a few girls at their service, and a discreet facade with a small, unnamed black metal door.
In the heart of the club, a platform, perforated by a chrome pole reaching from floor to ceiling, dominates the space. It stands vacant, at least for now.
As soon as they arrive, they are greeted by a woman whose height exceeds that of all the men in her office.
Moments after their arrival, they are met by a woman whose height surpasses even the tallest of the men in the room. Two golden horns, artfully concealed among the waves of her voluminous black hair, frame her face. She bats her long, dark lashes, crossing her hands demurely against her stomach, her biceps straining against the confines of her fur-covered bra.
"Good evening gentlemen I'm Eve. Welcome to Caffeine.", she purrs.
Riquet is over the moon. He takes her by the waist and, motioning for the group to follow him, walks to the sofas in the corner of the room.
It appears to be a themed event. A woman has just taken center stage near the pole, her straight hair spiked with gel framing her face. She wears a spiked choker, matched with several bracelets. She dons a tiny black latex skirt and a low-cut, short-sleeved top adorned with silver spikes.
Embarrassed, Nanami looks away. What did he expect? This is a strip club. It's not like he can be disrespectful by looking at them.
Eve returns, menus in hand, and settles beside Riquet. Nanami’s eyes inadvertently fall upon another woman, her horn accessories perched high on her head, suggesting a deer motif.
He doesn't see the face of the small group of customers sitting in front of her. Just her slow hip movements, as she unties her top.
Another voice pulls him from his observations.
A new girl has just approached them, well, Wagram, more particularly. She had to smell the idiot, he told himself by seeing her laughing.
She wears a white, plunging bodysuit that exposes her midriff, two oversized fluffy rabbit ears, and towering platform heels. Her big green eyes feign innocence as she explains the club's services, reciting the prices, her voice dripping with sultry allure.
Her big green eyes are innocent as she explains the club's operation to customers, reciting the price of services:
"Two tickets for a table dance, 5 for a two-song private dance, 10 for 20 minutes in the lounge, and 12 for a champagne lounge. How much do I give you... daddy ?" she said, blinding him with an almost Hollywood smile.
Nanami sees the partner Laplanche exchange an impressed smile with him that makes his stomach churns. He would very much like to disappear in front of this display for hungry idiots. The severe and dry face of Mrs. Laplanche appears quickly in his mind.
- How much is a ticket, pretty girl? asks Wagram by inviting her on his knees. Graciously, she passes a manicured foot, then the other one over his knees to settle across his thigh. He lets his hand rest on her naked thigh, lightly caressing her skin with his thumb.
Nanami shivers. Does Wagram have a hard-on in front of him? This is the worst night of his life.
- For you? She looks at the face of the sweaty Wagram as if it were a work of art. Nanami doesn't believe it for a second. 50€ daddy . His stomach tenses up every time she calls him that. It sounds like a bad porno. It feels cheap, vulgar. She sounds like a prostitute reciting her rates.
- Is that all? asks the big businessman. The others laugh quickly.
The rabbit-eared dancer nods eagerly.
- Mh! Her ears wiggle with her. How would you like?
Wagram's smile widens, and his eyes dart suggestively. "Show us what we're paying for first."
- Show us what we are paying for first.
She stands up chuckling, as if it was the first time she heard such an elegant joke, towering over him completely. Nanami is suddenly very uncomfortable. He considers leaving on the spot.
Lofty and agile, she twirls around, her long, glossy black hair creating mesmerizing patterns as it flares around her nearly nude body revealing a white rabbit tail nestled between her buttocks. Then, she leans towards him, and whispers.
- For the rest, you’ll have to pay, daddy , she answers with a wink.
When the music transitions from jazz to electronic beats and the rabbit-eared dancer leads Wagram away, Nanami checks his watch again—00:57. He should be leaving soon. One hour maximum.
The dimly lit room pulsed with the rhythmic beats of music, filling the air with a heavy bass that reverberated in Nanami's chest. The clock on the wall stubbornly displayed 04:31, a cruel reminder of the hours he had lost to this chaotic night.
"One more ! One more !"
The drunken chant echoed through the club, punctuated by raucous laughter and clinking glasses.
What do you do when one of your major clients decides to use your shoulders as a leaning post, his 300-pound frame transferring sticky sweat onto your carefully tailored suit?
Calmly pushing him away is a good solution. Vicious headache, coupled with the sleepless nights at the office for the past two weeks, might decide otherwise. He is as mummified, silent, his face closed like that of a monk having taken a vow of silence.
"Nanamii... have another drink with me... , his alcohol-saturated breath hot in Nanami's ear.
- Wagram! Don’t ruin my favorite boy!
With a tired sigh, Nanami managed to guide the inebriated giant to the nearest bench.
- Help me put a smile on this gentleman’s face Laplanche! Raise his commission, anything! Shouts Wagram.
Nanami sighs while putting him down but the man remains hung on the carefully rolled up sleeve of his shirt.
- I can't afford that! He's already costing me a fortune ! The owner of his firm responds.
- How about a day off, then? Have you seen those dark circles ? Moans the giant twisting Nanami's sleeve into a makeshift rag.
I wonder why , Nanami thought.
- Sold! A big slap on his shoulders shakes the big metal screw crossing his cranial box. Nanami cannot hold back a grimace.
The noise, the heat of the club, the physical contact.
Everything buzzes in his ears and makes him want to flee. While the white fog covers little by little the music some voices still reach his eardrums. A laugh, some words.
- I must insist! Let him have the last one!
It is only when a slim and cold hand slides slightly around his arm that he pulls out from his daze. The dancer with the rabbit ears stood before him, her smile faint but genuine.
- This way please. Don’t panic, I’m kidnapping you, she says simply. He allowed himself to be led, disoriented by the strobe lights that nearly blinded him. She ushered him into a small, quieter room adjacent to the main space. As the door closed behind them, he felt a sudden relief from the relentless chaos.
"It's quieter here, easier to breathe," she admitted, her voice soft, barely above a whisper.
She approached a tablet, apparently ready to play music, but he interjected.
- No. No music please. I need some silence.
She raised an eyebrow but complied.
- Can I at least buy you a drink? Your colleagues have been quite generous."
- No, thank you. He replied, shaking his head slightly and wincing at the pain . Do you have a painkiller instead?
A sly smile played on her lips
- It won’t be cheap.
He looked at her flawless makeup and wondered how she managed to stay fresh at this late hour.
- Feel free to put it on his tab, he tries, too fatigued to protest.
- Deal. I'll be right back.
His legs are a little weak, Nanami settles in one of the leather sofas arranged in the cozy room. Around him, Corinthian columns decorate all the circumference of the walls, simply interrupted by large mirrors reflecting the grandiose and intimate atmosphere of the room. The large crystal chandelier diffuses a subdued and warm light.
He tightens his legs, wondering what could have happened on the couch he is sitting on, and prays that the club's hygiene measures are of the highest order.
His gaze drifted to the ceiling, adorned with baroque, symmetrical moldings. He searched for hidden cameras among the ornate decorations, but all he saw were stucco patterns. He let out a sigh, glanced at his watch—04:38 am—and contemplated calling an Uber to escape this ordeal.
Just as he was about to reach for his phone, the music from outside intruded upon their sanctuary, only to vanish with the closing of the door.
"I thought you would have fled, the dancer remarked with a tired smile. She approached, offering him a glass containing a fizzing white tablet.
- You should too. Two big green eyes suddenly rise in his. She blinked, momentarily taken aback by his candor.
- First time? she asked, tilting her head slightly to the side.
Nanami struggles to keep his eyes in hers. Why? It's not like she's his type. He hates this place, and everything about it.
- And last, he says as he watches the pill slowly dissolve in the water.
The rabbit laughed slightly.
- What a pity, your colleagues offered me the most profitable night of my life, she says while lowering her eyes on her feet. Nanami does the same, giving a bad look to the abusive platforms that make her toes red.
- Don't you want to sit down? He points to the other end of the sofa. She hesitates for a moment, then advances supplely to him. His perfume intoxicates her. She smells something strong, floral and spicy.
The couch sinks a little as she settles beside him. She sighs at ease, rests the back of her head against the leather of the couch, then turns her eyes on him again.
His back tightens. He does not like the semblance of intimacy that the situation suggests. All this is false, purely and simply fake. A capitalist play.
- What is your name, Mr. Silence? Her eyelashes pass once before the two clear emerald beads. Her body is relaxed. This is not a professional position. But then, what is a "professional" position in this business?
- Nanami. His cold voice does not betray the deep uneasiness that makes his heart speed up.
- Nanami . It is a pretty name, she comments without taking her eyes off him. If only she could remove the ridiculous ears above her head, he might feel less like... a stripper's client.
Nanami tell me... He hates hearing her name between her shiny lips. He hates to hear it pronounced by her caressing voice. Do you know exactly how much your generous colleagues have given me tonight? His elbow is propped on the top of the couch, his chin resting on his elbow. Her eyes burn with drunken mischief.
Money. He has more in common with her that he could have imagined. He slightly turns his chest towards the stripper.
8,900 euros.
Way less than what he earned today.
- Not bad, for just a few hours. You almost make me regret my career choices, he replied with a cold modestly.
- It is not like this happens every night though, she says while laughing quickly. Not every evening ends with the fizz of an Doliprane, cand a chat on the couch.”
He doesn't answer anything, let the silence stretch across the room. His eyes are fixed on the glass in his hand. Once he has swallowed his medicine, he takes a quick look at the one next to him.
She seems to have fallen asleep. The arm on which she was resting her head is lying on the back of the sofa, and her head is collapsed in the crook of her elbow.
Nanami couldn't help but wonder if she'd been drinking too. It hardly mattered; perhaps it was for the best. He doubted he could have carried on this conversation much longer.
Nanami keeps his face turned towards the motionless dancer. He sees now that she stopped smiling, the black shadow of her under eye, below her thick make-up. Some wicks of hair begin to curl in the wet nape of her neck. She has folded her feet on the sofa, her big plastic heeled sandals like synthetic shackles, lightened of their weight.
His gaze wandered across the natural contours of the woman who had danced tirelessly throughout the night. How many smiles, how many strangers' hands on her hips? Her hips—somehow, her upper body appeared slender compared to her curvy hips. The proportions were captivating, and his tired eyes studied her without reserve. In this momentary escape from the artifice of the club, a sense of empathy washed over him. How many hours had she danced tonight, selling dreams and illusions?
Shaking himself from his contemplation, he reached for his phone to order an Uber, hoping his colleagues had already left, while choosing the first available car.
She stirs; he watches her straighten up abruptly.
"Oh... sorry, I-
- It's nothing, he replies with a small smile meant to be reassuring. I wasn't expecting you to dance.
- Your loss. If you ever tell anyone, I'll make you endure my playlist next time.
She smiles as she replaces her hair strands behind her ears. Her bunny ears have moved to the side, it's ridiculous enough to be sweet. She doesn't seem to realize it.
- I won't say a word. All that's left for you is to hack the cameras, Nanami says, pointing quickly to the ceiling. What's wrong with him?
She giggles, shaking her dark locks.
- There are no cameras here. Then, she plunges again her eyes in his. He must be really tired for it to be so effective. Come back soon, Nanami.
His phone vibrates, and he retrieves it from his pocket. His driver arrives in a minute. Sharper than him, she grabs his iPhone with a swift movement. He quickly sees her long polished nails typing at full speed on the screen with a small, dull noise.
And text me if your associates decide to come and empty their pockets. I'll dance for you this time. She gives him the phone back with a smile.
He picks it up without letting their fingers touch. He will never set foot in this place again.
- Thank you for the medicine, he says, getting up from the sofa. She does the same, moving behind his back before passing first to open the door, offering him a splendid view of the firm muscles of her back.
- And sorry for your evening, she answers with a small smile, as she turns over towards him.
Their eyes meet for one last time tonight.
- Go home safely, he says to her while lightly bowing his head.
- And write me. I'll make you some herbal tea next time.”
This last glare in her tired eyes is sufficient to transmit him the energy to return a small smile, before turning his back to her.
Alone in the parking lot, he lowers his eyes to the overly bright screen of his phone. His driver awaits, and a new contact now resides in his phone.
Bunny 🍵
07 56 41 33 26