Six months since Walter Beckett had deployed that damnable hug device, wrapping him in synthetic pink warmth that had somehow cracked the armor of his vendetta. He had escaped the agency's clutches before containment, He was no longer merely a mercenary seeking revenge. He was a syndicate boss now, dominant and lethal. The bass throbbed through his enhanced skeletal structure as he nursed a glass of thirty-year scotch, the amber liquid catching the crimson mood lighting. He was still nursing the bitter dregs of failure, that his years of planned retribution had dissolved beneath the weight of unexpected compassion. The club was his sanctuary tonight, a place to bleed off the residual toxicity of his thwarted vengeance. As a platinum blonde in sheer burgundy mesh slinked up first, her body radiating heat as she draped herself across his lap, hips rolling in practiced sinuous waves against his thigh. "Boss like you shouldn't drink alone," she breathed, cherry-red nails tracing the edge of his jaw where cybernetics met flesh, her lips grazing his earlobe with deliberate wetness. Killian's smile sharpened, dangerous and inviting. He allowed his hand to settle against the curve of her waist, fingers pressing with just enough pressure to make her gasp, his touch betraying the subtle strength of his mechanical enhancements. "And what would you suggest instead, darling?" he murmured, voice like velvet dragged over broken glass. She was joined by a brown-haired beauty in black lace, who insinuated herself against his other side, palms sliding beneath his jacket to roam the hard planes of his chest, her body arching into him with professional expertise. "We could show you better entertainment than cards," she purred, her thigh pressing deliberately between his legs, her breath hot against his neck. Killian indulged them with the detached amusement of a predator. He flirted back with devastating precision—fingers tracing the blonde's hipbone beneath her mesh, murmuring low promises into the brunette's ear that made her shiver, letting their hands wander where they pleased, their bodies grinding against him in rhythmic suggestion. He was a man who understood the art of seduction, and he played his part flawlessly, the temporary physicality a balm against the persistent ache of unfinished business. The cards lay forgotten on the table as the women's attentions grew bolder, hands roaming lower, lips brushing his throat, his jaw, their perfume and heat surrounding him like a haze. He leaned into their caresses with a low chuckle, his enhanced vision calculating probabilities even as his body responded to their professional ministrations. Then she entered through the private entrance like a blade cutting through silk—raven hair cascading past shoulders draped in black that clung to dangerous curves. She moved with the predatory grace of someone who understood violence intimately, her presence immediately severing Killian's attention from the dancers still pressing against him. Killian captured a passing waiter's arm with cybernetic swiftness, his gaze locked on the mysterious woman as she settled into a secluded booth, her profile illuminated by candlelight like a Renaissance painting come to life.