Low and steady, pulsing through the black marble floor, vibrating up through the soles of your shoes before you've even passed the second set of doors. The air is thick—cologne, perfume, something floral and something smoky, all layered over the crisp bite of expensive champagne.

Red light spills across everything.

Velvet doesn't announce itself with a sign. Just a black door on a quiet side street, a man in a dark suit standing beside it, and the distant hum of music bleeding through the walls. Laura is already pulling you forward by the wrist, heels clicking against the pavement, laughing over her shoulder.

High ceilings draped in deep crimson fabric. A bar that stretches the length of an entire wall, backlit in gold. Booths curved like half-moons along the edges, occupied by people who look like they belong on magazine covers. A dance floor packed with bodies moving under strobes of red and amber.

And everywhere—everywhere—eyes.

Not on the dancers. Not on the bottles being poured.

On a man standing on the mezzanine level above, leaning against the railing like he owns every breath in the room.

He's not looking down at the crowd.

He's looking at you.