The moment I step into Oriental Scala, the city’s chaos evaporates behind a velvet hush. The air is dense—sandalwood laced with something sweeter, maybe aged cognac or the ghost of the hostess’s perfume as she glides past without a glance. Crystal sconces fracture light across lacquered walls, and the floor beneath my heels gleams like obsidian, cool and unforgiving.

  Hansen murmurs his name to the concierge. She leans in, crimson lips grazing his ear, close enough to leave a stain. His shoulders twitch—pleasure or unease, I can’t tell. He’s trying to look composed, but I see the flicker in his jaw.

  He leads me toward the elevators. A woman already waits—tailored skirt suit, spine straight, eyes forward. She wears professionalism like armor, but her stillness feels rehearsed. She’s not just waiting. She’s watching.

  The elevator chimes. We step inside. She presses five without hesitation.

  "501?" Hansen's smile is calculated, his tone casual but probing.

  She nods. "You too?" Her gaze flicks to me for half a second—assessing, dismissing.

  Hansen nods, handing her a business card. She accepts it with both hands, then offers one in return. “Elin,” she says. “Please take good care of me.”

  /**

  In East Asian culture, "please take good care of me" is a polite expression commonly used when meeting someone for the first time or joining a new team.

  **/

  I catch the title before he pockets it: Government Relations Manager, Antz Financial.

  The elevator doors part. I turn to Hansen, keeping my voice light. "I need to touch up my makeup. I'll find the room myself."

  His jaw tightens. I can see the calculation behind his eyes—worry I'll back out. But with Elin watching, he swallows the protest. His silence says everything.

  I nod and slip away.

  Inside the women’s restroom, a wall of mirrors confronts me. My reflection stares back—sharp lines, composed facade—but my pulse thrums beneath the surface, fast and erratic.

  I pull out my phone. My fingers tremble as I type: 501. Send. Then I open the audio recorder. The red dot pulses like a heartbeat.

  I switch back to WeChat. Ruolin’s reply is already there: I know. We’re in 503.

  I exhale slowly, reapply my lipstick with surgical precision, and step out.

  When I push open the door to 501, the atmosphere shifts—thick, decadent, dangerous. The suite unfolds like a fever dream: oxblood leather couches, a karaoke console gleaming like mission control, and a low table set with cut crystal glasses encircling a bottle of Yamazaki 18.

  In the amber haze, I see him. Yafeng Yao. Gang Yao’s son. He reclines with the ease of someone who’s never been denied—legs crossed, one arm draped along the couch like the room itself bends to accommodate him.

  Hansen perches beside him, all restless energy. He leans forward, pouring whiskey with both hands in a gesture so deferential it borders on worship. When he spots me, his hand jerks slightly—a brief invitation to sit beside him. I pause, then slide to his other side, close enough for my phone to catch every word.

  Yafeng's gaze hasn't touched me yet. He's fixed on the short, bald man across the table. Two women bracket the space between them.

  "This is Chaoyang District." The bald man pats his chest. "No police would disrespect me."

  Five women orbit the three men. Three wear business casual—Elin among them—sharp-eyed, strategic. Not hostesses. These are corporate operatives, government liaisons fishing for IPO favor. Their attention clings to Yafeng like prey tracking a predator.

  The other two press against the bald man, qipao slashed to the hip, fabric stretched thin and dangerous. Plucked fresh from the hostess bar lineup, all curves and calculated smiles.

  I sit still, spine straight, phone recording. Every word, every glance, every lie.

  I’m in the lion’s den now.

  And they don’t know I brought teeth.

  … …

  Hansen and Yafeng buzz with excitement, voices overlapping—stocks, shorts, big money. Their words blur into static. Then Yafeng’s voice cuts through the haze.

  "Let's play a game."

  It's called jumping seven. Count in sequence, skip any number containing seven or divisible by seven. Fail, and you face judgment: truth or dare.

  A corporate girl—sharp suit, calculating eyes—fails first. Her name is Vera. She chooses truth.

  "What's your most embarrassing sexual experience?" Yafeng asks, his smile a blade.

  The bald man's eyes widen. So this is how power plays.

  Unauthorized use of content: if you find this story on Amazon, report the violation.

  Vera works for HiVision. She recounts a deal in Shandong—a government contract that required drinking maotai with a division chief. They had sex in the VIP room, both so drunk they swapped pants.

  When the chief's wife caught them, Vera had to swear it was all business, no pleasure. The price she paid—her body offered to the wife's brothers, her son, the whole family watching—to salvage the deal.

  The bald man's breathing shallows. His eyes rake over the three corporate women with new hunger. His hand slides beneath a hostess's qipao, brazen now. She giggles on cue.

  Hansen's knuckles whiten around his glass. Yafeng doesn't even blink. Unimpressed. Finally: "Let's toast to Vera's dedication."

  Everyone drinks. A hostess refills the glasses with mechanical grace.

  The game continues.

  A hostess fails. She chooses dare.

  "Shouzhong," Yafeng says to the bald man, voice dripping condescension disguised as generosity, "she's yours. What dare?"

  The bald man hesitates, uncertain of the rules in this arena.

  Yafeng's patience evaporates. "Standard dare then. Add it to the bill."

  The girl smiles—empty, rehearsed—and kneels before Shouzhong. She unzips his pants. The room watches. The bald man’s embarrassment dissolves into entitlement within seconds.

  While eyes are fixed on the performance, I slip my phone out. My thumb trembles over the screen. Help! Send.

  Terror coils in my chest. How many rounds can I survive?

  Two minutes. The girl stops, wipes her mouth, rises. Returns to her seat as if nothing happened.

  Third round. I count sixteen.

  "Stop!" Yafeng's voice cracks like a whip.

  Confusion ripples through the room. Sixteen contains no seven. Not a multiple.

  "One plus six equals seven," he explains, his smile venomous.

  “That’s not the rule,” I protest, though I already know what’s coming.

  "Let's vote." He surveys the room like a king addressing subjects. "Who agrees sixteen should be skipped?"

  Every hand rises. Including Hansen's.

  "Truth or dare?" Yafeng's eyes pin me like an insect to a board.

  My throat constricts. "Truth."

  "No." His voice is ice. "You don't get truth."

  "Why not?"

  "Because I don't trust you, you fucking lying cunt." The room temperature plummets. "You were the only one who didn't show up last time. Come here. Suck my dick."

  My body trembles. I turn to Hansen—one last appeal, one final thread of hope, not just for me, but for us.

  He sits frozen. Eyes pleading—not for my safety, but for my submission. To sacrifice myself. To make this easier for him.

  The answer clarifies everything.

  I stand. Walk toward the door. Then run. My mind screams 503. But before I reach the handle, before escape becomes real—

  Yafeng lunges, hand reaching for my hair—

  The door bursts open.

  Two officers in uniform. One catches Yafeng’s wrist mid-grab, wrenches his arm behind his back. Yafeng drops to his knees, howling. “Let go! It hurts! Shouzhong!”

  The bald man rises, puffing his chest. “Who dares cause trouble in Chaoyang District?”

  Then recognition flickers. “Mingxuan—stop. That’s an order.”

  Mingxuan’s gaze is permafrost. “You’re not my boss anymore.”

  The second officer announces, “Nobody moves. Suspected indecent conduct.”

  "Get out!" Shouzhong's voice cracks with desperation and rage. He steps forward. "I'm a higher-ranking officer. Stand down. That's a command!"

  A low, contemptuous laugh echoes from the doorway. "I outrank you."

  A burley man enters. Followed by Ruolin.

  Sky-blue uniform. Immaculate. Every inch the weapon she’s become.

  “You,” Shouzhong stammers, pointing at her. “Why do you keep targeting me?”

  She doesn't dignify him with a glance. "Take them. Back to the Bureau."

  Two more officers enter. One seizes Hansen—he doesn't resist, just stares at me like I've become someone he never knew. The other approaches Shouzhong.

  He shoves the officer. “The Bureau? The chief is nearby.” He fumbles for his phone.

  The officer looks to Ruolin. She gives the slightest shake of her head. "Let him call."

  The corporate women sense the shift. Vera speaks, voice brittle. “I’m here meeting friends. Is that illegal?”

  "Shut up." The burly officer shoves her onto the couch, handcuffs glinting as he raises them in warning.

  Silence falls like a guillotine blade.

  An officer finds the light switch. Harsh fluorescent glare floods the room, exposing every shadow, every sin.

  Hansen's face is corpse-pale. Yafeng's arm remains twisted behind him, sweat streaming down his temples. The menace has drained from his eyes, replaced by something raw and animal: fear.

  "Don't worry," Shouzhong whispers to him, moving close. "Chief Liu is coming."

  Five minutes crawl by. Then the door opens.

  A tall man in a crisp uniform enters, surveying the scene with practiced authority. His eyes land on Yafeng, and his voice rings out immediately. "Release him. That's Chairman Yao's son."

  Mingxuan looks to Ruolin. Only when she nods does he release Yafeng's arm.

  Chief Liu catches the exchange. Fury flickers across his face before he forces it into a smile for Ruolin.

  "Ruolin." His tone is honeyed poison. "I don't see any real harm here. Why escalate?"

  Ruolin gestures me forward. "Did you record everything?"

  I nod, hand her my phone.

  She passes it to the burly officer. "Evidence."

  Chief Liu's eyes dart to Shouzhong. The bald man's face crumbles into panic. Hansen stares at me, shock and betrayal warring in his expression—as if he never imagined I could be anything but compliant.

  Yafeng's gaze bores into me with concentrated hatred, a promise of retribution.

  "Superintendent Xu," Chief Liu says, voice hardening, "I'm still your superior. I'm ordering you to drop this. Now."

  Ruolin's expression doesn't change. "Take the men." She glances at the two hostesses. "And these two."

  The officers move instantly. Handcuffs click—Hansen, Yafeng, Shouzhong.

  Chief Liu's composure shatters. "I am the chief of Chaoyang District Bureau! The highest-ranking officer in this room!" His voice rises to a shout. "I order you to stand down and leave immediately!"

  "No." The burly officer turns to him, document in hand. "You're not."

  Ruolin reaches into her pocket. She produces a pair of insignia with deliberate slowness.

  Two gold stars gleam under the light.

  Chief Liu's goes pale. Shouzhong's knees buckle. Even Yafeng—vicious, entitled Yafeng—goes very still.

  The silence that follows is absolute.

  She looks at me then, and I see it—not just authority, but something fiercer.

  She becomes larger than life. My hands stopped shaking the moment she entered. But now—now my heart pounds, my face flushes. I move closer to her without meaning to.

  I found something I never found for Hansen.

  Not safety.

  Not approval.

  Something deeper.

  Admiration.

  Love.

  And this time, I won’t run.

  /**

  Police ranks and insignia in the Ruby Republic.

  Constable Second Class — One Bronze Bar

  Constable First Class — Two Bronze Bars

  Superintendent Third Class — One Silver Star, One Silver Bar

  Superintendent Second Class — One Silver Star, Two Silver Bars

  Superintendent First Class — One Silver Star, Three Silver Bars

  Supervisor Third Class — Two Gold Stars, One Gold Bar

  Supervisor Second Class — Two Gold Stars, Two Gold Bars

  Supervisor First Class — Two Gold Stars, Three Gold Bars

  Commissioner Third Class — Three Eight Pointed Stars, One Gold Bar

  Commissioner Second Class — Three Eight Pointed Stars, Two Gold Bars

  Commissioner First Class — Three Eight Pointed Stars, Three Gold Bars

  Deputy Commissioner General — One National Emblem surrounded by a partial wreath of gold olive branches.

  Commissioner General — One National Emblem surrounded by a full wreath of gold olive branches.

  **/