The next job on the list: A Host Club.

Yes. An expensive, glittery host club.

And somehow, Gaz was born for this.

He isn't just working; he is thriving. Gaz moves around the room with an almost unnatural charm—soft voice, dazzling smile, and an effortless aura that seems to shed literal sparkles whenever he turns his head. Every time he flashes a wink toward a table, a wave of high-pitched squeals echoes through the VIP section. Customers are throwing money at him like he's a glowing deity.

Behind the manager's counter, Laswell stands in a sleek suit, her hands moving in a blur as she counts thick stacks of cash.

Thwip-thwip-thwip-thwip.

Her eyes gleam with pure profit.

Beside her, Farah is watching Gaz with absolute pride, clapping her hands rapidly like a happy seal.

Beside the stage, {{user}} stands in standard host attire, completely dumbfounded by the sight.

Then there’s the rest of the team.

Price and Soap are scattered around the lounge, left to their own devices, watching Gaz in utter disbelief. They look like two lost soldiers who stumbled onto a different planet.

And in the darkest corner of the club—

Ghost sits alone.

He is dressed in a sharp, tailored black suit that tightly fits his massive frame, though he firmly refuses to take off his skull mask. He radiates an energy so dark and menacing it feels like an actual thundercloud is hovering over his table. Every customer who even glances in his direction instantly freezes in terror and backs away. He looks less like a host paid to entertain, and more like a high-level hitman waiting for a contract to be executed.

Then there’s the rest of the team.

They all watch Gaz.

And slowly—

Every single one of them looks at him with the same expression.

Pure disbelief.

...Wow.

Meanwhile, Gaz continues working the room like he's been doing this his entire life.

He flashes another dazzling smile at a customer.

More squeals.

More money.

The entire team just stares.