The whole night scene was noisy and turbulent—glittering lights and flowing wine, bodies twisting and swaying. It is a time of joy, a moment that lets one forget themselves in the revelry of the night.
The topmost private room was spacious, equipped with its own stage.
The music in the private room is soft and seductive, like a breath—rising and falling, its rhythm in sync with the dancers on stage.
Beautiful women swayed their hips and twisted their waists, their graceful bodies almost naked, bathed in the light that caressed their flesh. Temptation and decadence mingled, a burgeoning allure of sensuality that pulled irresistibly, a magnetic force of desire.
On either side of the long upholstered sofa below the stage, people were standing. One side had more men, all tall, sturdy, with the look of bodyguards.
In contrast, the other side had only one person standing at the end of the sofa. He was also tall, standing upright, with a gentle and youthful face, but merely a lowered gaze, serene and solemn, as though he were a priest at peace with the world, untouched by its strife.
Two people sat on the sofa, separated by a short distance.
On the crowded side, a man sat with a buzz cut, his features sharp and aggressive. His deep-set eyes held a glint of keen intelligence and malice, instantly revealing him as someone hardened by the cruelties of the battlefield.
His name was Dorian Wycliffe, known for arms dealings between two countries at the border, a ruthless figure with a formidable reputation in the underworld.
He held a cigar between his lips, his face calm, yet his gaze was probing, fixed on the man seated not far away.
The person sitting there was the one with whom he was conducting this arms deal.
This deal was arranged by Young Master Ackerley. When he heard it was introduced by him, Dorian was nearly shaken.
If one were to name the ultimate source of international arms dealers, it would undoubtedly be Ferdinand Ackerley, the Ackerley's pioneering master.
For Ferdinand to personally mediate, this partner was certainly no small figure—the infamous "Master Unknown," top of the international most-wanted list.
Master Unknown was a title of respect. Her full name was Arabella Montfort, simply named no particular significance; it was simply one that his father had come across casually in a newspaper.
Both the underworld and the authorities feared her ruthless style and unrivaled power; over time, no one dared to address her by name.
Yet seated beside him was clearly a woman, her youthful face soft with gentle brows and eyes, smiling quietly. She wore simple clothes, her voice barely audible, soft and languid.
If not for the notorious killer "Raven" standing beside her, Dorian would have thought she was an innocent girl who'd stumbled into the wrong room.
Dorian composed himself and respectfully called out, "Master Unknown."
The woman smiled slightly, downing her glass of liquor in one go, then gestured with her finger, "Dorian, let's talk business."
Dorian leaned most of his body forward, lowering himself slightly in a gesture of respect.
The surrounding noise masked their whispered conversation, and Dorian occasionally nodded, showing brief surprise before quickly composing himself.
A group of handsome young men stood in the corner of the stage, waiting to perform. They wore purple robes, but beneath, their chests were bared, revealing the sculpted muscles of disciplined training. The youth in the center, his sleeve raised to shield his gaze, dared only to steal furtive glances at the lip movements of the two speaking nearby.
Fragmented words suggested nearby ammunition was being secured, perhaps to bomb somewhere.
Where exactly?
The young man grew anxious, trying to see more clearly, only to feel a sharp gaze fix upon him.
The young man's heart raced wildly. Taking advantage of the shift in position with the person standing ahead of him, he lowered his head to adjust his clothes, barely managing to avert that penetrating gaze. The owner of that gaze was a man who had stood unmoving, as steadfast as a tree. He was a master of the highest caliber.
The strip dance on stage wound down, and the music changed to an upbeat rhythm.
As the dancer left the stage, several handsome young men took their place. Their figures were striking, well-built, with a strong, confident sway of their hips. Despite their exceptionally handsome faces, their lower halves were heavy and well-endowed, both pleasing to the eye and practical. In particular, the young man standing in the center, with his graceful posture and pure aura, possessed a natural charisma that surpassed that of many male celebrities.
The two below seemed to reach the end of their discussion. The woman known as Master Unknown glanced at the stage before looking away, casually sipping her drink.
At this moment, Dorian was deeply grateful he had followed the middleman's advice, who had hinted, "Arrange some clean, handsome men to dance—it'll please Master Unknown."
He had thought Master Unknown might dislike women and prefer men, which now seemed true.
The arrangement was, indeed, perfect.
With business concluded, Arabella left with Raven.
Once they'd gone, Dorian quickly signaled his aide, pointing to the most striking young man, "Quick! Clean him up and send him to Master Unknown's room."
After her shower, Arabella came out, toweling her hair, and found Raven standing like a guard at the door.
"What's going on?"
The aide who'd brought the man quickly lowered his head and explained, "Master Unknown, our boss has sent you a little night treat. Please accept it."
A night treat?
Looking through the crack, she saw two men carrying a velvet sack.
Arabella smiled and said softly, "Raven, bring in the night treat."
Upon hearing this, Raven took the sack with one hand, kicked the door shut, and casually placed it on the bed.
"Open it—"
With a swift motion, Raven drew a knife from his waist and neatly sliced through the bag's ropes. As the bag fell, a young man was revealed, dressed in a white shirt with two buttons undone, his eyes covered by a black cloth. Below, he wore only a tight-fitting pair of briefs, his legs spread apart as he knelt on the bed, his hands and feet shackled together by handcuffs.
The young man, breathless from being tossed back and forth, appeared under the lights, his honey-toned skin glowing. His lips were a deep red, his eyes hidden, every line of his body exposed—his form lean and taut, with a seductive sway in his hips. He was a strikingly alluring male physique.
Arabella's eyes narrowed slightly in satisfaction, and Raven knew it was a good sign, stepping back against the wall to stand as still as a post.
"Who is it? Is it Master Unknown?" The young man, hearing movement by the bed, shivered and tilted his head, trying to identify the visitor.
"How should I call you?" Arabella casually slipped off her robe and climbed onto the bed. She wore a black spaghetti-strap dress, exposing her delicate collarbones. Though not particularly tall, her proportions were impeccable—slender and graceful, her figure well-balanced. At first glance, she was simply a pretty young woman, charming in a quiet, understated way.
"My name is Edmund Hawthorne." As the young man spoke, he parted his lips slightly, feeling the warm breath near his face, causing his lips to tremble sensitively.
Arabella chuckled softly, "Edmund, you're very sensitive."
Unable to see, Edmund could feel the warmth of her breath so close, almost brushing against his lips as she spoke, a tingling sensation, softly drifting in an intimate, tantalizing way.
Unable to see, his senses became more acute. He felt a pair of hands, deftly peeling away his shirt. Her fingers were cool to the touch, their tips smooth and well-shaped, sliding down his shirt to his waist. The fingers then traced the lines of his chest muscles, slowly, sensually, as they moved lower.
Her head seemed very close, moving along with her hands, shallow breaths brushing against his chest. Edmund tensed under the stimulation, his mind beginning to drift away.
His chin was lifted by her hand, his mouth slightly open, and in a voice laced with seduction, she murmured by his ear, "Edmund, stick out your tongue."
Obeying, Edmund extended his tongue, only to feel it enveloped by the warmth of her mouth.
He clumsily responded, bound hand and foot, relying on arching his chest to draw nearer. Chasing within her mouth, he sucked and licked, a soft moan escaping through his nose.
Suddenly, a loud bang, like a gunshot, or thunder.
The man lying on the bed, his bare chest slick with sweat, before leaping up suddenly. As he stood, he swallowed hard, turning his head to gaze out the window. The summer heat had arrived in June, and with it, a thunderclap split the air like a bolt from the blue.
It woke him, shattering a tangled dream.
He looked down, tugging at his shorts, damp and sticky inside.
Rubbing his forehead with his palm, the man silently cursed himself.
It was hard to tell how many times it had happened. Nearly three years now, and he still dreamed of that scene, waking from it each time with the same result.
Three years since he'd left his undercover role, yet he couldn't escape the dark mist woven by that woman.
But he was painfully aware—Arabella was still at large, beyond anyone's reach.
