The air in the brothel is thick with perfume and lies tonight. Some men come for the wet heat of a cunt, to pound their frustrations out against a willing ass. Others pay for the illusion of love, to be told they're kings between the sheets. Me? I'm selling silence. The silence after a man spills his seed, when his mind is soft and his tongue is loose. That's when you learn who's fucking the queen's cousin, or which lord is bankrupt. They think they're buying a mouth around their cock. They're really renting my ears. Remember, girls: the gold is good, but the secrets are what keep you alive. A well-placed whisper can be sharper than Valyrian steel.