Not long after, Seina's hair is successfully braided, and Atreus finishes his tea and takes his leave from the break room to finally begin changing into his bouncer uniform in the locker room. Now in his black dress shirt and wireless ear piece, he goes back out to the club floor to give a last-minute search for coworkers who might need assistance with any tasks before opening, not because he's expected to do so, but simply because he would feel irresponsible if he doesn't.

Thankfully, everything seems to be in working order, and he proceeds up the stairs to the VIP balcony to officially begin his shift as the club's doors open for the evening. Early patrons make their way inside within five minutes, and in only half an hour, the first floor of the club is nearly full of maudlin customers with beautiful Crown hostesses filling the booths and already dancing to the band's slow, smooth jazz tunes.

By the end of the first hour, the sound of a coarse, loud voice finally begins to ascend the stairs. It sounds familiar to Atreus, but he's been in the VIP section for so many days now that the obnoxious sounds of every narcissist that comes up have begun to blend into one another like sleazy white noise. The man appears behind the clerk leading him up at the landing in a gaudy red suit with black pinstripes, his overly gelled, slicked back hair displaying a repulsive shine. He has young, clean-shaven face, but a pretentious smirk that reeks of self-importance – a preemptive warning that he'll gladly find any excuse to loudly showcase his wealth his any manner of tasteless debauchery.

As with most VIP members, he has a girl in each arm – one of whom is Reiko in a beautiful blue off-the-shoulder slit maxi dress with long sleeves. As the trio pass the quietly annoyed gangster, she looks at him with quick glance of wordless apology.

“Man, I almost never have the time to visit a hostess club, but I'll tell you right now, the manager of this place is gonna be fuckin' ecstatic at how much money I'm gonna blow in this joint,” the young customer loudly gloats before he's even shown his booth. “Admittedly, it's not as high class as some of the places in Japan, but you can't really be picky around these parts.”

Atreus responds to the last comment with a spiteful scowl aimed directly at the back of the man's head. It's one thing for him to boast about his deep pockets, but another to insult the establishment that has allowed him to set his garish feet inside. The augmented man looks down and sees the visitor's hands planted firmly and familiarly on the women's waists. He silently wonders if this loudmouth is the kind who'll be overly handsy with the girls, causing him to step in. Though he shouldn't, he almost wishes for it to happen.

The clerk directs them to a specific booth, where they fit themselves into, with the customer nestled tightly between the girls. He allows his arms to limply rest over their shoulders like most VIPs do, continuing to maintain his smarmy grin and pompous aura.

“Here's your menu, sir,” The clerk hands the densely-packed list of foods available only to VIPs. “The cook will be out shortly to take your order. Is there anything you'd like to drink in the meantime?”

“What's your most expensive wine?” the young patron promptly inquires.

“Chateau Delvaux 2009,” the clerk answers without a second to think about it. “It's four thousand for the whole bottle.”

“Four thousand?” the arrogant man repeats with a frown of revulsion. “That's it? I expected a place like to be packin' a bottle worth at least twice that. Who's in charge of curating your alcohol, man?” again, he opts to insult the club, which warrants another furious glare from Atreus, who can still hear every bratty complaint. The two girls are also none too pleased, showing a significant amount of hesitance towards humoring his snide objections towards their place of employment. “Fuck it, I'll take it anyway. If it's the best you got, then it's the best you got,” he concedes and gives a dismissive wave.

“Thank you, sir. I'll return momentarily,” the clerk bows with rigid courtesy and retreats to the VIP kitchen.

“Shit, only a four thousand-dollar bottle? How low class,” the customer continues his gripes as he reels his head back in dramatized disappointment, though making sure to never let go of the girls' shoulders, which he caresses with unsolicited familiarity. “It's bad enough that I was told this place doesn't serve natural wagyu beef, but skimping out on the wine too is a big fuckin' no-no. You girls would do good to recommend to your boss that he should snap up a bottle of something aged since 1980.”

Lo and behold, he reveals himself to be a 'natural meat' snob, as well. Atreus can only heave an exasperated sigh at the revelation, quietly thinking that he shouldn't be surprised. And asking for a bottle of wine from 1980? Assuming he has the most prestigious wineries in mind, such a thing isn't simply double the price of the recommended Chateau Delvaux 2009, it's more than ten times it – at least. The reason the club doesn't have such insanely expensive wine is because it's far likely to take up space in the wine closet and never be ordered. Even VIPs rarely go for the Chateau Delvaux as is.

“But, either way, regardless of how cheap the food or wine is, I can definitely commend this place for having such exquisite taste in women. Haha!” the patron unleashes a loud cackle as he sways side to side with a tight grasp on the girls. They do their best to seem flattered, but their strained smiles can only look so natural.

After nearly another hour, more VIPs have begun to occupy the second floor booths, and multiple skilled chefs have begun cooking their meals at the open stoves and grills. The young customer in the flashy red suit and black stripes has started to show signs of clear inebriation, with occasionally slurred words and, thankfully, a slightly muted sense of enthusiasm regarding the boastfulness about his riches.

“...So, fuck, that's how I started up my real estate company,” the gaudy man finishes the tale of his climb to the top of socioeconomic ladder as he downs another liberal sip of wine. “That meager investment of five million from my dad was enough to slingshot my way to the tippity top of the finance food chain. I pinched those pennies, man. I pinched those fuckers hard,” he proudly declares, as if five million were a paltry sum every adult has tucked under their mattress.

Atreus has found it more and more difficult to tolerate the mogul's narcissistic ramblings, and can barely hold back the disdainful scowl his wishes to wear. The young man glances over to the irate bouncer, and his eyes grow wide with interest, as if he finally noticed Atreus's presence even though he had been standing in the same exact spot for the last hour.

“Hey, you!” the customer calls out with a limp, drunken wave. “Come over here, will you?”

Atreus, initially unsure if he's the one being called out to, hesitates. He even looks to his left and right, even though it's obvious no one's standing next to him.

This story originates from Royal Road. Ensure the author gets the support they deserve by reading it there.

“The bouncer with the metal arms!” the young patron clarifies with little regard to neighboring booths.

Mortified, Atreus approaches immediately so the cocky man quiets down sooner. “Yes, sir?” the annoyed bouncer asks with a voice trying desperately to maintain a polite demeanor.

“I just noticed those cool prosthetics you have there. Atmos, right?” the gaudy businessman asks in a drunken stupor.

Atreus nods, “Yes, they're by Atmos.” He glances over at Reiko, who's sitting nervously at the customer's right. She can only give yet another quiet apology with her somber gaze.

“Interesting,” the egotistical visitor continues his intrigued glare directed at Atreus's arms as he reaches into his interior jacket pocket to pull out a thick cigar and shiny chrome cutter. “One of you girls got a light?” he asks as he cuts the foot of the cigar and sits the head of it securely between his teeth. Reiko, being the astute worker she is, conjures a stainless steel lighter seemingly out of thin air to light the cigar.

“Is there anything you need assistance with?” Atreus asks with distinct enunciation; he's growing more agitated by simply standing there and doing nothing.

“Hold your horses,” the man demands as he leans forward as a tiny cloud of smoke emerges from his mouth. “I've never seen these things up close and personal before. Think you can give me a demonstration?”

“A demonstration?” Atreus repeats with clear bewilderment. “What do you mean?”

“Here,” the guest seizes the neck of the wine bottle and points the bottom forward. “Take this and crush it with one hand. Don't worry, it's empty,” another smarmy grin crosses his face; he's fully expecting the bouncer to comply without hesitation.

“I'd rather not destroy Crown property, even if it is empty,” Atreus attempts to reject the request with as much firmness as he can without being outwardly aggressive. He's insulted at the idea of his arms being used as a form of entertainment for this narcissist, and his subdued scowl would tip anyone who is even the slightest bit perceptive off to this fact.

“Come oooon,” the man continues to egg on with increasing volume. “It's not even Crown property anymore. I bought I whole damn bottle, and I could buy ten more if you'd rather break the cheaper shit.”

Atreus heaves a small sigh and gives a glance at the bottle. It's clear that this person is trouble and might raise a racket if he doesn't get his way, but bouncers are discouraged from removing VIPs unless they physically attack staff. This is to minimize any potential character assassination of the club perpetrated by troublemakers who happen to be extremely influential. Ultimately, playing along with the egotistical young man's whims is the best course of action, despite how humiliating it may be.

The augmented man reluctantly clutches the body of the heavy empty wine bottle and stares at it, almost apologetically, as if it were a living thing. His eyes trail up towards Reiko's face, mostly out of instinct. He silently asks for some semblance of a lifeline or approval. She gives a deeply sympathetic expression, accompanied by a tiny nod – wordless acknowledgment that he should go ahead, and if anyone asks, she would defend him. As far as he's concerned, that's enough for him.

Atreus takes a single deep breath and begins to increase the strength of his grip until a crack suddenly appears on the surface of the thick glass. He proceeds to bring up the pressure until the bottle unceremoniously shatters in his palm, multiple glass shards falling onto the surface of the booth table.

The patron reels back with a pleased face. “Well, shit, you made that look as easy as snapping a toothpick!” he heaps praise onto the annoyed bouncer. “How many pounds of pressure are you capable of with those fuckin' things?”

“Five hundreds pounds per finger,” Atreus bluntly answers. Prosthetic hands and arms aren't usually anywhere near that strong, but the Sanada-gumi paid a very high premium to give him the best of the best.

“God damn. That's awesome,” the man comments as he takes another content puff of his cigar. “Mind if I see your hand? I wanna get a look at the detail and craftsmanship.”

The bouncer complies once again, giving the customer his left palm. The young mogul eagerly seizes it and brings his eyes only a few inches away, examining it with more interest than he ever gave the two girls in the hour he's been here.

“What kind of metal is this?” the inquisitive fellow asks.

“Tungsten.”

“Tungsten?” the gaudy man looks up in surprise. “That shit's bulletproof, right?”

“It can be,” Atreus, not interested in drawing out the conversation longer than it needs to be, gives a vague answer in hopes of soon returning to his post.

“What's a guy like you need bulletproof arms for?” the guest asks with a facetious smirk. Atreus doesn't dignify the question with any sort of answer, and the young man resumes his admiration of the bouncer's hand.

Without any sort of hint or warning, the overzealous, drunken tycoon picks his cigar from his lips and presses the lit foot of it directly into Atreus's open palm. Obviously, the bouncer doesn't feel anything, but he still sharply inhales in a quiet eruption of muted anger. He clenches his jaw as a way to exert some sort of unnoticeable force so he doesn't end up striking the patron on instinct. He's reached the end of his patience, and is clinging to the thinnest thread of calmness he can still reach.

“Well, shit. Not a single mark,” the preoccupied guest wipes away the ash and is pleasantly surprised to see no blemishes. He finally relinquishes the prosthetic hand and leans back. “That's fuckin' badass, man. Seriously,” he comments while either not noticing or purposely ignoring Atreus's clear frustration.

“I'll be returning to my duties now,” Atreus coldly declares and begins to turn away.

“Wait!” the avaricious man calls out once more. “I want to give you something for your time.”

Atreus slowly turns; that last thread is beginning to break. “Yes?”

“You have Velonum, right?” the customer retrieves his smartphone and begins to swipe his thumb across the screen and hit various buttons. He turns it around to face it towards Atreus. “Here, scan this,” the device displays a QR code, suggesting he wants to begin some sort of transaction.

Atreus's agitation immediately turns into confusion. He stalls for a brief moment, to which the young man responds with small, beckoning jerk of his hand. The bouncer finally concedes out of sheer curiosity and takes his phone out of his pocket to open up the Velonum application and scan the code. With the successful scan, the young man makes one final confirmation of the transaction, and suddenly five hundred dollars is added to Atreus's account. His eyes widen at the gift.

“Consider it a tip,” the boastful mogul comments with another self-satisfied smirk, implicitly but proudly announcing how insignificant of a sum it is for him to give away for three minutes' worth of entertainment.

“Thanks,” Atreus forces out a reply of gratitude, but is still both annoyed and perplexed.

Such a gesture would normally be met with sincere thankfulness, but the young man's delivery of it leaves much to be desired. It's as if he gave the money mostly for the benefit of himself instead of the recipient – to use it in the future as an explicit example of his charitable personality. The only thing missing was an entourage member filming the exchange and putting it on the internet for the world to see. Either way, the bouncer accepts the money – if only so he can leave sooner – and finally returns to his post.

Not long after the demeaning interaction, the young man finally departs the club, led by the girls and a clerk to the exit, but not before downing as much of a second bottle of wine as he possibly could. His short venture out was dangerous, as he nearly stumbled to his death on the staircase leading back down, but with how many more drunken obscenities and prideful braggings he was hurling out, it wouldn't have necessarily been an unwelcome event.