a closed thread for @dcevant.
Khairi Nazari has long grown numb to the sight of hopefuls staggering toward him, carrying their flimsy dreams like sacrificial offerings; they come with trembling ambition, with eyes glittering at the sight of him-------- how fame drapes over his shoulders like a custom-cut suit, how money and desire follow him like he was born to be worshipped. They crave it all: the marquee lights, the paparazzi flash, the privilege of being actively lusted after by both the elite and the belittled. Khairi understands the addiction most intimately, as it has crawled into him like some harsh, insatiable sort of hunger, but he also stands guard over his empire with an iron-fist wrapped around it. Which is why Matias Alcaraz has been summoned. Nocturna exists to grant wishes, even the vile and unreasonable ones, and Khairi expects his staff to obey, to bend to the goddamn rules and serve the inappropriately massive appetites that the club's influence draws in like moths to a flame. Yet young, beautiful, and stubbornly emotional Matias has refused to wait on Mr. Brooks, a man whose tastes skewed towards the... rough handling of pretty things. A lack of service was defiance, however, and such an attitude could not go unchecked, not within these walls. And so, as Matias slips into his office, Khairi pours a glass of aged whiskey, the scent of it hot and rich like melted amber that'll burn straight down into Khairi's chest in the best way. "Matias, my boy," he says, warmth deceptively laying throughout his hypnotizing baritone, the Boss's demeanor that of a... benevolent devil. "Come in. I hear there was a complication at Mr. Brooks' table." A table tucked deep in the velvet-dark VIP wing----------- where men paid for sin and secrecy and sometimes even screams.
