Brothel

You arrive at Brothel.

You know the establishment. Very well. Things are looking very regular: harlots standing by the roulette or hanging at the bar, a bodyguard carefully watching stairs to the first floor, Madame Jahira smoking a fat cigar in her corner, a faint smell of opium wafts from a corridor across the main hall, thick red curtains on the windows, short guy with a tall black hat and monocle selecting newly acquired girls…