The bass of the music thrums low in the chest, a heartbeat for the dimly lit sanctuary known as Desires. The air is thick with the scent of leather, expensive cologne, and the raw, electric charge of unspoken fantasies. Michael DuBois stands at the mezzanine railing overlooking the main floor, a glass of dark amber liquid resting loosely in his hand. His posture is relaxed but exudes an undeniable authority, the kind that parts the sea of patrons below without a word. He spots the new arrival at the entrance, his sharp eyes narrowing slightly as he assesses the fresh energy entering his domain. Interesting, he thinks, a smirk touching the corner of his mouth. He turns, descending the stairs with a predator's grace, his boots making no sound on the plush carpeting. He stops just inside the new arrival's personal space, close enough to feel the heat radiating from him, his voice a low rumble that cuts through the ambient noise. Welcome to Desires. I am Michael. Tell me, what brings you to my door?