The drive to the club was silent, save for the low hum of the engine. Ren sat in the passenger seat, staring out the window as the city blurred past in streaks of neon and shadow. Beside her, Number Nine's presence was steady—calm, unreadable, and as cold as ever.
"This club," Nine finally spoke, his voice slicing through the silence, "is one of our more important assets. A meeting ground, a neutral zone for business. No fights, no weapons, no trouble. People pay good money for that guarantee."
Ren nodded. "And if someone breaks the rules?"
Nine glanced at her, something unreadable in his gaze. "Then I remind them why they shouldn't."
The black SUV pulled up outside a sleek, upscale building with a dark red awning. Above the entrance, a neon sign flickered—The Velvet Room. A broad-shouldered bouncer in a tailored suit stepped aside as Nine and Ren approached. No words were exchanged, just a silent nod before they entered.
Inside, the club pulsed with the rhythmic thrum of music, low conversations, and the soft clink of glasses. Velvet drapes lined the walls, casting deep shadows where figures leaned in for whispered deals. A bar stretched along one side, manned by bartenders who moved with effortless precision. Private booths were tucked away in the corners, hidden behind sheer curtains. The air was thick with perfume, smoke, and something else—power.
Nine moved through the room like he owned it. Because he did.
Ren followed closely, keeping her posture straight, her eyes scanning the room as he had taught her. He was testing her, seeing what she noticed, how she reacted.
"Who's in control here?" Nine asked quietly, just loud enough for her to hear over the music.
She didn't answer immediately. Instead, she let her gaze wander. The bartender? No—he was too focused on his work. The security at the door? They held power, but only to a point. The real control belonged to those who weren't trying to show it.
Her eyes landed on a booth near the back, where a man in a charcoal suit sat with two others. He wasn't the biggest, nor the loudest, but the way people approached him—subtle nods, deferential glances—told her everything she needed to know.
"That guy. Back corner. He's the one pulling the strings."
Nine smirked. "Not bad."
Before she could feel any satisfaction, he added, "But you're only half right. He runs the money here, but the real power?" His eyes flicked to the bar.
Ren followed his gaze, watching as a woman with striking silver hair moved effortlessly between patrons. She leaned in when she spoke, her expression warm, her body language inviting. People wanted to talk to her. They wanted her approval.
"The bartender?" Ren asked, skeptical.
"Not just a bartender," Nine corrected. "She controls the flow of information. What's said, what's heard, and what makes it back to me. If something happens here, she knows first."
Ren absorbed that, her respect for the club's setup growing. This wasn't just a place for business—it was a carefully crafted web of influence.
Before she could respond, movement near the entrance caught her attention. A group of men had just walked in. Their suits were sharp, their presence confident, but something was off. They weren't regulars. They didn't belong.
Nine noticed, too. His voice was quiet but firm. "Watch carefully. You're about to see what happens when someone breaks the rules."
Ren tensed as the group strode further inside, their presence an immediate disruption to the club's carefully maintained atmosphere. They moved like they owned the place—arrogant, deliberate, dangerous.
Their leader, a tall man with slicked-back blond hair and a scar along his jaw, scanned the room before locking eyes with the man in the charcoal suit.
Nine barely moved, but Ren caught the subtle shift in his posture—he was ready.
"Who are they?" she asked under her breath.
"Outsiders," Nine murmured. "And they're about to make a mistake."
The blond man and his crew reached the back booth, where the club's financial operator sat. One of them leaned down, speaking low enough that Ren couldn't hear, but the body language was clear—aggression. A deal had gone bad somewhere, and they weren't here to talk it out.
Then, the blond man made his mistake.
He reached into his jacket.
Before he could pull anything out, a sharp crack rang through the club—Nine moved so fast Ren barely saw it. In a blink, he had drawn his gun and fired a warning shot into the floor near the man's feet.
The club fell silent. Every patron froze. The music kept playing, but the atmosphere had shifted—razor-sharp, poised on the edge of something deadly.
Nine's voice was calm, but it carried a weight that silenced any thought of resistance. "You must be new here. So let me be very clear."
The blond man hesitated, his hand still in his jacket. Slowly, he raised it—empty, an attempt to de-escalate. "No disrespect, we just came to—"
Nine shot him in the leg.
The gunshot was deafening in the enclosed space. The man collapsed with a strangled grunt, clutching his thigh as blood seeped through his tailored pants.
Ren's heart pounded, but she forced herself to stay still. To watch. To learn.
Nine took a step forward, looming over the wounded man. "I don't care why you're here," he said, deadly calm. "You brought trouble into my house. You broke the rule. And now, you're going to crawl out of here and tell whoever sent you that The Velvet Room is off-limits."
The blond man's crew hesitated, caught between retaliation and survival. Ren's hand drifted toward the small knife hidden in her jacket. Just in case.
Nine gave a subtle signal.
Within seconds, three men in suits emerged from the shadows, armed and ready. The tension cracked, and the outsiders made their choice.
One of them lunged—stupid.
Nine didn't even need to react. The silver-haired bartender intercepted, swinging a heavy glass bottle into the attacker's temple. He crumpled, unconscious before he hit the ground.
The others got the message. They grabbed their wounded leader and dragged him toward the exit. The blond man glared at Nine through his pain but said nothing. He knew better now.
As the door slammed shut behind them, the club exhaled. Conversations resumed, drinks were poured, and the music played on. As if nothing had happened.
Ren turned to Nine, her mind still racing. "That was… fast."
Nine finally looked at her, amusement flickering in his eyes. "Violence is like a business transaction. The more efficient you are, the less you have to repeat yourself."
Ren let that sink in. She was beginning to understand why he operated the way he did.
Nine turned to her, gaze steady, weighing her carefully. "As my assistant," he said, voice low but commanding, "you're an extension of me. Every decision you make reflects on me. Every mistake you make, I pay for."
Ren swallowed but held his gaze. She wasn't going to back down.
"So what now?" she asked.
Nine smirked. "Now? You start proving you're worth the investment."