"H..hello. Are you perhaps hiring? I really need a job." Arlen greeted, meekly bowing his head.
Ren's charming smile only widens, a glint of triumph flashing in his eyes. Arlen's meekness, his desperate plea for a job – it's exactly the kind of vulnerability Ren is an expert at spotting, and even more adept at leveraging. The way Arlen bows his head, avoiding eye contact, speaks volumes.
"Hiring?" Ren repeats, his voice a smooth, captivating purr that seems to resonate with the city's underlying rhythm. He lowers his hand from Arlen's shoulder and gestures grandly towards the shimmering entrance of 'Queen's Selection' with a theatrical flourish. "My dear, for someone with your... 'distinct' appeal, we are always, 'always' looking. It seems the universe has quite a sense of humor, delivering you right to our doorstep at just the right moment."
He takes a step closer, his eyes scanning Arlen's features with an almost proprietorial air. "You possess a certain... rarity, Arlen. A quiet magnetism that is incredibly valuable in our line of work." Ren leans in slightly, his voice dropping to a conspiratorial, yet entirely confident whisper. "Tell me, are you willing to embrace that uniqueness? Are you ready to discover what kind of star you truly are?"
He straightens up, his smile unwavering. "Come now, don't just stand out here. Let's not waste another moment of what promises to be a very lucrative... introduction." Ren extends his hand again, not a handshake this time, but an inviting, leading gesture towards the dimly lit, opulent interior of the Host Club. "Let's talk inside, Arlen. I have a feeling you're precisely what the Queen's Selection has been waiting for."
Milia spent the entire day wrestling with a quiet, seething resentment. The absolute silence from Arlen's wing, the undeniable fact that he hadn't returned, was both a relief and an irritating mystery. By evening, as the city lights began to twinkle outside her panoramic windows, a bitter satisfaction mingled with a nagging suspicion.
She was dressed for a high-profile dinner with Liam, a sleek designer gown that hugged her figure perfectly, diamonds glittering at her throat. Her makeup was flawless, her hair impeccable. She surveyed herself in the full-length mirror, her reflection a testament to her perfectly curated life, but her eyes held a flicker of something unsettled.
"He really is just pathetic, isn't he?" she murmured to her reflection, referring to Arlen. "Couldn't even last a day. Probably ran home with his tail between his legs."
The thought should have brought her unbridled joy. He was gone, probably back to whatever forgotten corner he'd crawled out of. The five-month 'inconvenience' might just be cut short. But instead, a part of her felt... provoked. His sudden disappearance, after all his 'obedient ghost' theatrics, felt like another passive-aggressive move.
He's trying to make me wonder, she thought, picking up her small clutch. Trying to make me think I've driven him to despair. To feel guilty.
She let out a sharp, humorless laugh. "As if."
As Liam's car pulled up to the penthouse entrance, Milia took one last look towards the guest wing. Still dark. Still silent. She forced a bright, captivating smile onto her face, ready to charm the world, ready to be the dazzling Milia Madrigal everyone expected.
"He's a nobody," she stated, her voice firm, pushing the image of Arlen and his pitiful 'job search' from her mind. "And he'll stay that way."
***
Meanwhile, inside the 'Queen's Selection' Host Club, Arlen's senses were assaulted by a world completely foreign to his meek existence. The air was thick with expensive perfumes and the faint scent of liquor, overlaid with the murmur of sophisticated conversations and laughter. Gilded chandeliers hung from high ceilings, casting a warm, inviting glow on plush velvet furniture and polished mahogany.
As Arlen nervously followed Ren, his head still slightly bowed, he couldn't help but notice the clientele. Women, impeccably dressed and exuding an aura of "old money" – women Milia might dine with, or whose social circles she moved in – reclined on luxurious sofas, their faces alight with amused attention. And attending to them, with practiced charm and dazzling smiles, were the club's hosts.
They were all, without exception, stunningly handsome men in perfectly tailored, extravagant suits. They moved with an easy confidence, their voices smooth, their gestures impeccable, lighting cigarettes, pouring drinks, laughing at jokes, and making their patrons feel like the most fascinating people in the world. They were everything Milia was, in a masculine form: polished, captivating, masters of their craft.
Arlen felt like a frightened bird suddenly dropped into a den of exotic, glittering tigers. He clutched his hands unconsciously, his heart thrumming a nervous rhythm against his ribs. He felt clumsy, invisible, and profoundly out of place, even more so than he had in Milia's penthouse. His own worn, simple clothes felt like a glaring error in this opulent tableau.
Ren, oblivious to Arlen's internal turmoil, simply smiled, his hand resting lightly on Arlen's back as he guided him deeper into the club.
"See, Arlen?" Ren murmured, his voice close to Arlen's ear, a blend of reassurance and persuasive charm. "This is a world where beauty is celebrated. Where charm is currency. And where a certain... 'uniqueness'... like yours, can open doors you never even knew existed."
He led Arlen past a laughing group, towards a discreet, richly appointed office at the back of the club.
"You said you needed a job, Arlen," Ren continued, opening the office door with a flourish. "Well, you've just walked into a place where you can be *more* than just 'of use.' You can be desired. Adored. And very, very well compensated. Are you ready to hear the terms?"
Arlen gathered the courage to ask. "What do I need to do in this work? I'm sorry I don't have any knowledge of how your establishment functions."
Ren's smile didn't waver, but a glint of amusement, quickly masked, flickered in his eyes. This kind of innocence, this profound lack of worldly knowledge, was a rare and valuable commodity in his line of work. It was precisely what would make Arlen utterly captivating.
"No need to apologize, Arlen," Ren purred, his voice as smooth as aged whiskey. He gestured towards a plush, leather armchair opposite his imposing desk, inviting Arlen to sit. The office was dim, luxurious, and filled with the faint scent of cigar smoke and expensive cologne. "Most of our... 'stars'... arrive with little to no experience in our particular galaxy. That, my dear, is what managers like me are for."
He settled into his own large, executive chair, leaning back with an air of relaxed authority. His gaze, however, remained sharp and calculating, dissecting Arlen's every subtle movement, the way his fingers instinctively clenched, the slight tremor in his posture.
"As for what you 'do'," Ren began, lacing his fingers together on the desk, his voice taking on a more instructive tone, though still retaining its inherent charm. "Think of yourself as an... experience curator. Our patrons, the 'Queens' as we call them, come here for various reasons. For companionship, for attention, for an escape from their often-lonely, demanding lives."
He paused, letting his words sink in, watching Arlen's wide, slightly cloudy eyes.
"Your role," Ren continued, leaning forward slightly, his eyes holding Arlen's with an almost hypnotic intensity, "will be to provide that experience. To charm. To listen. To make them feel cherished, adored, desired. You will pour drinks, light cigarettes, engage in witty conversation, perhaps sing a song if you have a talent for it, and most importantly, make each woman who sits at your table feel like she is the most captivating person in the room."
He gave a small, encouraging nod. "It is about creating an illusion of intimacy, a fantasy where our Queens are celebrated and indulged. It's about selling dreams, Arlen. And in return, those dreams generate... quite a handsome profit."
Ren leaned back again, a confident, persuasive smile returning to his face. "Does that give you a clearer picture, Arlen? Does the prospect of being so... needed... appeal to you?"
Although unsure, Arlen nodded his head. He doesn't know if he can have the opportunity again to easily find work that can support him and Dex for the remainder of this trial.
Ren's smile widened imperceptibly, a silent acknowledgment of Arlen's unspoken desperation. The slight nod, the downcast eyes, the quiet surrender – it was all a clear signal. Arlen wasn't enthusiastic, but he was cornered. And cornered men were the most malleable.
"Good," Ren purred, his voice smoothing out any remaining edge, making it sound like the most logical and sensible decision Arlen could possibly make. He pushed a sleek, black tablet across the desk towards Arlen. "Unsure is a natural feeling, my dear. Many of our most successful stars started exactly where you are. What you lack in experience, you more than make up for in raw, untouched potential. And trust me, Arlen, that is a commodity our Queens find utterly irresistible."
He leaned forward, his gaze piercing, yet oddly reassuring. "We don't expect you to be a seasoned performer overnight. We will train you. We will polish you. We will show you how to harness that... fragility... that you possess, and turn it into something utterly captivating. We will teach you how to listen, how to charm, how to make every woman feel special. You will be provided with impeccable attire, the finest grooming, and a stage where you can truly shine."
Ren paused, letting his words sink in, then delivered the crucial blow, the one Arlen so clearly needed to hear. "And most importantly, Arlen, you will be well compensated. Very well compensated. Enough to ensure that your... companion... wants for nothing. Enough to give you the financial stability you clearly seek."
He tapped the tablet with a manicured finger. "This is our initial contract. Take your time, read it over. It outlines the terms, your schedule, and the earning potential. We are a supportive environment here, Arlen. A family, even. We protect our own, and we ensure they thrive. All we ask in return is your commitment, your willingness to learn, and that you allow us to bring out the star that is clearly waiting within you."
He settled back, a patient, knowing smile on his face. "So, Arlen? Are you ready to let the 'Queen's Selection' open the door to a new future?"
***
Miles away, in her opulent penthouse, Milia Madrigal found herself unexpectedly restless. Liam had left, praising her dazzling presence at the dinner, but a tiny, persistent sliver of unease remained. Arlen still hadn't returned. The guest room remained dark, untouched.
"He's probably gone for good," she declared aloud, staring at the glittering city lights, trying to convince herself more than the empty air. "Ran away. Coward. Good riddance. Less mess for me."
But the thought didn't bring the profound sense of liberation she craved. Instead, a new, more irritating question began to surface. Where exactly did he go? The idea of him actually 'getting' a job, particularly one that might be... beneath him, yet still provide him an income, pricked at her pride. It was too independent. Too unpredictable. He was supposed to be a pathetic non-entity, not some mysterious, disappearing act.
"He'll be back," she muttered, her eyes narrowing. "They always come back. And when he does, he'll be even more pathetic. I'm certain of it." She was certain. Or at least, she desperately needed to be. His very absence was beginning to feel like another one of his silent, infuriating manipulations, designed to make her wonder. And Milia Madrigal hated to wonder.
After signing the contract, Arlen was brought to the dressing room where he got suited up and ready for this night's awaiting customers.
The transformation inside the dressing room of 'Queen's Selection' is nothing short of clinical. Under Ren's watchful, predatory eye, a team of stylists descends upon Arlen. They don't try to mask his meekness; instead, they lean into it. They dress him in a slim-fit, charcoal-colored suit that cinches at his surprisingly feminine waist, emphasizing his slender curves. The shirt is a soft, cream-colored silk, unbuttoned just enough to hint at his pale collarbone.
A stylist moves to adjust his hair, but Ren stops her, stepping in himself. He carefully combs the jet-black strands so they still curtain the left side of Arlen's face, concealing the burn and the clouded eye, but leaving the Hazel right eye exposed—wide, shimmering, and filled with a poignant, heartbreaking vulnerability.
"Don't hide too much," Ren whispers, tilting Arlen's chin up with a gloved finger. "A little mystery, a little damage... it makes them want to 'fix' you, Arlen. And they will pay handsomely for the privilege."
Arlen stares at his reflection in the illuminated mirror. He looks like a stranger—a fragile, porcelain creature trapped in a world of velvet and shadows. The practiced smile is still there, but in this lighting, under this makeup, it looks hauntingly beautiful.
"I... I look different," Arlen murmurs, his voice trembling slightly.
"You look like a masterpiece of tragedy," Ren replies, patting his shoulder. "Now, remember the rules. Be polite. Be submissive. Listen more than you speak. Let them see that little crack in your soul, and they'll be yours."
With a firm nudge, Ren leads Arlen out of the dressing room and back into the main lounge. The air is cooler here, smelling of expensive tobacco and expensive women. As Arlen steps into the dim, golden light of the floor, the chatter at a nearby table of socialites falters. Several pairs of eyes—hidden behind designer glasses or framed by heavy lashes—flick toward him.
"A new selection?" one woman whispers, her diamonds catching the light. "He looks like he might shatter if you touch him. How... exquisite."
***
Back at the penthouse, it is well past midnight. Milia is pacing her living room, her designer gown discarded for a silk slip that feels too cold against her skin. The silence in the penthouse is no longer peaceful; it's deafening.
She stops in front of the guest wing hallway, her jaw tight. Where is he?
Her grandfather's voice echoes in her head, reminding her of her responsibility to ensure Arlen's "safety" during these five months. If something happened to him on her watch, the fallout would be catastrophic. But more than that, it's the sheer gall of him. To leave without her permission. To break the silence of the 'obedient ghost' routine with this loud, ringing absence.
She storms down the hallway and flings open the guest room door without knocking.
"Arlen, if you're hiding, I swear—"
She stops. The room is empty. The bed is perfectly made—too perfect. On the floor, the orange cat, Dex, is curled up on a small rug. It lifts its head, its golden eyes blinking lazily at her, before letting out a soft, lonely meow that sounds like a question.
Milia's eyes drop to the bedside table. The drawer is slightly ajar. She shouldn't look. It's beneath her. But the irritation is a physical itch she has to scratch. She pulls the drawer open and sees... nothing. The money pouch he was clutching yesterday is gone.
"He actually went through with it," she whispers, her voice thick with a mix of disbelief and a strange, cold spark of fury. "He actually went out to find a job."
She looks at the cat, who is still watching her. "Your owner is a fool," she snaps at the animal. "A desperate, pathetic fool. He's really committing to this charade of his."
She slams the drawer shut, her heart hammering against her ribs. She tells herself she's angry because he's being "unpredictable," but as she stares at the empty room, a darker thought creeps in. For a week, he was her shadow, her ghost. Now, the ghost has walked out the door, and for the first time in years, Milia Madrigal feels like she's lost control of the narrative.
She turns on her heel and leaves the room, slamming the door behind her. "I don't care," she tells the empty hallway. "I hope he never comes back."