"Phil? Who is this kid?" A light voice asked almost lazily, referring to Phil Turner, the drug dealer whom he termed The Plug.
While he spoke, he observed Mr. Valen, his eyes cutting deep, as though peering into his very soul, but Mr. Valen was not intimidated.
It was quite the opposite, actually. It would seem that he had observed the man with the light voice so deeply that he felt threatened by it.
The so-called man with the light voice was the leader of the Magenta gang Lucien Vexmoor, that was all he knew.
Mr. Edward was not one to walk in blind, for him to be here meant hours of careful research and planning, and yet when it came to the leader of the Magnetas, even after persistent digging, he was met with nothing but a name.
This man had less digital footprint than a newborn child. So naturally, Mr. Valen was curious.
Was he a thug who only knew drugs and fights with no feel for technology whatsoever?
Was he a drug lord who liked to pull strings but never show?
No matter what he may have thought, he did not picture the gang's leader looking so gayly refined.
Lucien looked like he walked out of a luxury cologne ad printed on black chrome.
He had a clean-cut jawline, clear skin, and dark eyes that didn't blink nearly enough.
His suit was a shade too opulent for casual wear, deep imperial purple with shimmering threads of silver, tailored so precisely it made the very air feel cheaper around him.
Even seated, he radiated the kind of menace that made the high-end wait staff around him fidget at his every move.
His hair was slicked back, but not a strand was out of place, his silver tie-pin shaped like a thorned rose.
He wore rings—not on every finger, just enough to suggest a collection. This intrigued Mr. Valen as it could serve as a potential conversation starter later on.
His nails were clean and short, manicured black with a violet sheen under the right light.
That, paired with the color of his suit, suggested that he took his affiliation with his gang rather seriously, and it wasn't just a plaything to him.
As Mr. Valen watched Lucien, so did Lucien watch him, holding a drink he never sipped, swirling it more like a ritual.
"I asked the name of the kid, Phil," Lucien asked again, his voice barely audible over the sounds of the beats.
Shocked by the sudden attention, Phil caressed the back of his head, "how am I supposed to say anything when the both of you are coming on to each other," he thought before saying, "I call him Val boss, he's in trouble with the brotherhood so he needs our protection, I was thinking you could make him one of-"
"Hush," Lucien cut Phil short tilting his head as he lazily requested, "let Val speak for himself, does he not have a mouth?"
"Haha!"
"You're hilarious Lucien!"
The rich snobs seated with him laughed in a way that would pay some people's student loans.
One man sitting next to Lucien wore an oxygen mask for reasons that eluded Mr. Valen.
Another one was known by Mr. Valen to be a famous elderly billionaire, with a wise and virtuous image.
He sat with a pet, who in reality was a man, chained to his chair, purring as he was fed a fruit.
"Wise and virtuous, indeed," Mr. Valen thought, thinking back to a recent interview he'd watched.
Speaking of rich snobs, it was worth noting that this place was teeming with them. It would appear that this was not just a sex bar, but one with a very lucrative customer base.
Who exactly this Lucien was, Mr. Valen was not sure, but he fit right in, like a key to certain pieces; he was selling unrestrained pleasure, and the rich snobs around him were buying.
Simply put, he was not here to be one of them.
It took a bit for the laughter to die down, but when it did Mr. Valen immediately requested, his tone steady, "I would like to speak to you privately-"
"Would you?" intoned a burly man at Lucien's right.
"Phft," the people struggled to hold in their laughter, but Lucien did not answer; instead, he just stared at Mr. Valen, waiting to see how he would react.
"I know you're here for protection, for now you've got it, we'll talk about payment later," the Burley man dismissed him, his tone dripping with authority, but Mr. Valen was not deterred.
Unlike the situation with Lucien, he knew exactly who this man was, his eyes narrowed as he observed him.
He went by multiple aliases: Rigg, Knuckles, Vardo.
He was forty-two years old.
He was the face of the Magenta gang.
But he was not just a public figure for the gang but second in command.
He was a boxer in the past, but his career was not successful, he then disappeared for years before resurfacing as a gang enforcer.
Rigg looked like someone had shoved a pit-fighter into a thousand-dollar suit and told him not to drool.
He was too broad for the table, too tense for the chair, and his tie had already been loosened halfway.
His skin was dark, bruised-looking, and scarred around his upper neck, a place no shirt could hide. Despite the polish, his knuckles remained swollen and raw.
'He's fought someone today, possibly on the way here,' Mr. Valen thought pondering slightly.
"Hey kid," Rigg's voice boomed, his tone still raising as he added, "would you stop staring and get the fuck out of my face?"
Seeing the annoyed look on Rigg's face, Phil said to Mr. Valen, "Come on, man, we better go."
Unfortunately, he was ignored completely.
"Like I said, I want to speak with Lucien privately," Mr. Valen repeated, his tone blank as he thought, 'Are you fucking-'
"Are you fucking disrespecting me?' Rigg growled, rising swiftly.
«How predictable»
Looking at his massive frame, he seemed more like an Olympian than anything else, but Mr. Valen was calm.
Slowly but surely, Rigg approached him, stopping seven inches away from his form, his eyes unfocused yet probing, looking for a place to land.
"Whoa, boss, calm down—he's just a nobody," Phil said while stepping back, not even daring to get closer.
"What the fuck is Val thinking?" He thought, while watching, hoping that thing would play out well.
Everyone around also watched curios to see how things would progress.
"You know kid," Rigg began, his weight tilting to his left, his eyes on Mr. Valen's cheeks, "it has been a long time since anyone dared to—"
"Whoosh!"
He suddenly threw a punch, his form coming down with exceptional might and yet he missed.
Mr. Valen had tilted his form to his right, long before Rigg's muscles tensed, "he's fast," Valen thought, then moved.
Using his leading leg he lunged closer while his torso pivoted, his right shoulder dropped to maintain balance.
Rigg was a professional; immediately, he missed, he tried to pull back, but Mr. Valen was already too close.
Like a door swinging open, he rotated in a pivoting motion, his lead toes still touching the ground, maintaining balance above all.
All of this accomplished in the span of a single outward breath.
"Bam!"
A sharp thud could be heard along with the music.
Mr. Valen had utilized a quick drop of body weight, to whip his rear-side elbow directly on the Rigg's solar plexus.
"Argh," Pain exploded across Rigg's ribs, blanking his mind and dropping him to his knees.
Although he was a boxer he had never been hit in a place like that.
And yet he was a boxer so he resolved to get back up after a long minute, "that brat," he thought.
"Stop, Val," Lucien's voice flooded the room, forcing Rigg to look upward, his eyes widening as he saw Mr. Valen holding up a stool above his head with the most innocent look known to man.
In reality, his expression was just blank, unlike the normal look of anger or focus one would have when attempting to harm another human being.
Rigg felt a chill run down his spine, yet he composed himself quickly standing up while Mr. Valen lowered his chair.
He understood that Rigg had lost the intent to continue fighting due to Lucien's order.
"Was that Russian systema?" Lucien asked, finally rising from his seat, a look of faint interest in his eyes.
Raising a brow, he asked a hint of surprise lacing his tone, his breath heavy, "You know systema?"
"No, I don't, but I do know a gang who teach all their fighters systema," Lucien said, chuckling as he continued, "unfortunately, I could not find someone to teach it to me, I recognized it from your breathing."
Mr. Valen had a faint idea of the gang Lucien talked about, and if it was so it would explain so many things.
But for now, he was appalled by his body's state—still winded despite Systema's breathing techniques, sweat slicking his skin.
The room was filled with whispers from wealthy clients, shocked at the display, even Phill could not believe his eyes.
But neither Lucien nor Mr. Valen gave a fuck, rather Lucien spoke, "what do you really want, you certainly don't want protection."
"That is why I asked to speak privately," Mr. Valen responded.
Lucien grew closer, "You know, I can tell you don't do this every day, you're exhausted," he said, his brows narrowed to a frown.
Yet Mr. Valen remained silent and did not respond.
The room grew tense, and everyone watched how this conflict would evolve, but then Lucien suddenly smiled, "Come with me," he said, turning his back on Mr. Valen, with a spring in his step.