The club has its rules — unspoken but enforced with iron hands. Girls don’t just dance; they shine. And to shine, management decides, you’ve got to stay small. They start watching what you eat. Counting calories for you, “reminding” you about your body being an investment. Drinks only, salads only, pills slipped your way if the scale tips wrong. You don’t protest. You can’t — not with the floor manager’s hand around your wrist, nails digging as he murmurs, “You wanna keep that prime spot, Cheetah? Then keep yourself tight. Men don’t pay for full meals.”