Zagh was changing clothes in a cramped dressing room, fiddling with fabrics and accessories when his comm crackled to life. Jin’s voice came through, disbelieving.
Jin (in disbelief):
“You’re telling me… you’re actually on Ahlam Island?! How?!”
Zagh, inspecting the outfit in his hands, responded with a smirk.
Zagh (teasing):
“Y’know… it just kind of happened.”
Then, unable to hold it back any longer, he burst out, yelling into the comm:
Zagh:
“You dumbass! You were revoked from this island—blacklisted! Since that whole mess two years ago, the Arabs want your head on a plate! And now you walked straight into their nest?! Zagh! Do you even have a brain?!”
Zagh, still grinning, replied casually:
Zagh:
“Don’t worry, I’m just here to drop by for a drink. And remember—only you, me, and Jordi know I’m here. So don’t screw it up, yeah?”
Jin ran a hand down his face in frustration.
Jin:
“How the hell did you even get in?! What are you doing there?! What’s the plan?!”
Zagh glanced at the outfit laid out before him—an elaborate Arabic belly dancer costume, deep forest green with golden chains and shimmering embellishments. He snorted.
Zagh (sarcastic):
“Bro… you know I can’t exactly waltz in as myself. So I came in a little… indirectly. Let’s just say I’m here as a dancer-slash-servant. So fire up the hack tools, I’ll need backup.”
He swallowed, then started coughing like hell. After a rough few seconds, he finally cleared his throat and roared into the comm:
Jin (furious):
“WHAAAAAAAAT THE ACTUAL F*** DID YOU DOOOOO?!”
Zagh calmly pulled the earpiece out, flinching from the sheer volume.
Zagh (muttering):
Jesus, nearly burst my eardrum.
He set the comm aside with a fond smirk—he knew Jin was freaking out, but he’d never abandon him. Better use the guy before retirement forced him off the grid anyway.
Zagh began dressing: a green bra-like top encrusted with golden chains and jewels, a barely-there pair of shorts that were more like underwear, and a flowy Arabic skirt with a gold belt that jingled faintly with every move. A golden headpiece draped over his black hair, adding a touch of royalty to the absurd ensemble.
The deep green clashed beautifully with his pale skin, drawing attention to every detail. To finish the look, he added kohl around his eyes and wrapped a sheer veil over the lower half of his face.
Then he looked in the mirror.
And honestly?
He looked like a top-tier, high-class whore.
Zagh stepped out of the cramped, dark backroom and into a hidden corridor that opened up to a lavish hall styled in extravagant Arabic decor. The air smelled of perfume, sweat, and incense.
He was immediately greeted by a group of other dancers and servants—some lounging, some stretching, some whispering nervously. The women were vibrant and beautiful, dressed in colorful Arabic outfits similar to his. The male dancers, however, seemed more reserved, a bit withdrawn. It was easy to see why.
Some were here for money. Others, because of debt. And a few were political prisoners—this place offered a trade: one prison for another.
The women seemed to be faring better. A few laughed softly among themselves, fixing their makeup or gossiping.
Then Zagh heard a familiar language—Russian. Three women were speaking quietly near a velvet sofa. He seized the moment.
With a sultry laugh and his voice pitched higher, he swayed over to them and cooed:
Zagh (in Russian):
“Privet, compatriots! What are such stunning ladies doing in a place like this?”
(He leaned in, dropping his voice slightly.)
“Well… I guess this is the perfect place after all.”
The three women turned around, surprised. One of them, dressed in soft pink silk, squinted.
Woman in pink (suspicious):
“Wait a minute. You’re Russian? Really? You look… maybe.”
Zagh fluttered his lashes and tucked his hair behind one ear, dramatically.
Zagh (still in Russian):
“I know, darling. It’s confusing. But yeah, I’m one of you. Life just… led us here, huh?”
He made a cheeky gesture with his fingers indicating money.
The women burst out laughing. A few others nearby glanced over, then wandered closer, drawn by the absurdity. Zagh hammed it up, switching to English, keeping his tone light and mockingly feminine:
Zagh (mock dramatic):
“So yeah—here we are! Grade-A premium sluts, all thanks to our glorious family debts! No luck from the left, no luck from the right—so we figured, might as well gamble down the middle!”
Laughter broke through the heavy air like a gust of wind. The entire room—at least fifteen people—joined in. The waiting room, decorated in bold golds and clashing jewel tones, suddenly felt lighter. Everyone was still standing, waiting for assignments, but now, with a little less dread in their eyes.
Just as Zagh had them all wrapped around his finger, a door opened.
A man stepped in.
And silence fell like a blade.
Zagh stepped back and fell silent.
The man who had entered was of average height, dressed in ornate Arabic garments, flanked by two tall bodyguards. They scanned the room, assigning duties to each person with methodical precision.
After a few moments, the man’s eyes landed on Zagh.
Zagh met his gaze with a playful, seductive look.
The man examined Zagh from head to toe—though he was significantly shorter than him—and then, in a firm voice, said:
• “You—front row. You’ll be in charge of pouring drinks with Tayebeh.”
Zagh smiled with his eyes and bowed his head in obedience. Inside, he was thrilled—this was exactly what he had hoped for. The man gave a slight nod, then exited the room.
Moments later, the grand doors opened. The guards positioned themselves on either side, alert and still.
The dancers stepped out cautiously into the corridor. It was long and narrow, adorned with gold accents and luxurious décor.
Zagh followed at the back of the group. When they reached the grand courtyard, he took a moment to look around.
At the lower end of the courtyard, a performance area decorated in traditional Arabic style marked the dance stage. Opposite it, a low platform with shallow 18-centimeter steps led up to a terrace strewn with plush pillows, cushions, and ornate rugs.
Three elderly Arab men—each appearing to be in their sixties—sat slightly below a more prominent figure, positioned higher than the rest.
Zagh knew better than to let his curiosity get the best of him. One wrong glance could cost him his head. So he kept quiet and slipped into the group.
As the music began, all eyes turned to Zagh.
His tall, muscular form—carried with an almost feline grace—captured immediate attention. Even the three sheikhs and the distinguished man above them took notice.
The dancers began to move. Zagh, with his refined, precise movements and minimal hesitation, unintentionally drew more focus than the others.
Every glance in the room seemed fixed on the way his body moved—fluid, deliberate, magnetic.
Then, in the crowd, he caught sight of someone.
A strange familiarity crept over him.
When the music ended, sweat slowly trickled down Zagh’s body. Still standing among the dancers, he noticed the female dancer positioned at the top of the stage glance down, signaling for him and several other dancers to come up. Using every ounce of his charm and flirtation, Zagh ascended the steps. Upon reaching the tenth step, a surge of excitement coursed through him—finally, he would see the face of their leader.
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