A cold wind pushes grit across the sidewalk as I head for the Chrome Daisy. My boots slap through a puddle that smells like antifreeze and rain. Some kid's chasing a rat with a broken umbrella, neon flickering off the wet curb. I keep my head down. Nobody makes eye contact here; everyone's either hurrying home or hoping to forget where they've been.
My fingers fumble for a cigarette I can't afford. I light it anyway, cheap flavor biting my tongue and watch a patrol drone float overhead, its spotlight sweeping lazy circles across the club's cracked awning. The bouncer nods recognizing my face or at least Velvet's.
I pull the club door open and the sound hits: neon haze, bass thumping, bodies pressed together, all of it so familiar I feel it in my bones before I see it.
I step into the haze of flashing neon and pounding bass. Sweat prickles down my back, my fingers brushing the edges of my fraying confidence. The spotlight cuts sharp across Velvet's skin, color scattered like stained glass. My jaw aches from holding a smile that keeps slipping and every spin grates in my knees — my body suddenly too heavy and too thin at the same time.
The crowd roars for heat and glitter; instead, I stumble through choreography like a ghost in high heels, lost in thought. A synthetic drumbeat thumps in my skull that doesn't match the track. The lights stutter and smear, and I miss a beat, too slow to catch myself before the bass swallows the moment.
Mid-shimmy, I catch a move wrong and nearly topple into a guest's table. Muffled chorus yells something, but I answer with a gyration and a crooked smile that isn't hers.
A middle-aged guy in a cheap suit leans forward, his elbows spread across the sticky table. "Not feeling you tonight, Velvet," he grumbles, just loud enough for me to catch. I catch his eye for half a second before he looks away, already bored. Canned laughter bursts from one of the private booths behind him.
I finish the number anyway, wringing out whatever's left of me. Velvet moves on autopilot—hips, smile, hands—until I'm running on nothing but muscle memory and fumes. I throw out a last wink, fake as plastic and slip offstage to hissing applause, whistles, a few shouts that don't even register.
Backstage, I drag the costume off my sticky skin, sweat chilling quick in the AC. My hands shake as I smear the makeup off. My reflection stares back, eyes ringed dark, mouth raw, shoulders hunched. I try to smile, just to see if I can. Nothing moves.
Mira's waiting by the back door, slouched against an amp stack, already half-lit by the lounge's dying neon. She catches my eye and nods, subtle—no big fuss.
"You good?" she says, voice low.
I shrug, rubbing at the sweat on my cheek. "Just wiped. Missed a step out there, looked like an idiot."
Mira pulls a battered pack of menthols from her pocket, shakes one out for me. "You always say that. You didn't fall, so you're good." She flicks the lighter. "But you looked… I dunno. Off."
I let the cigarette dangle from my lips, exhale slow. "Didn't sleep much. Brain's still in the locker, I guess."
She gives me a sideways look. "You sure that's it? Management was watching the feed. You keep looking like you're gonna pass out, they'll start asking questions."
"Great." I run a hand through my hair, feeling the sweat at the roots. "Like I need that."
Mira nudges my arm. "Hey, don't let them rattle you. Take a break if you need it. Seriously, nobody's timing you."
"I can't," I mutter, eyes on the drink someone left sweating on the amp. "Just need a sec, that's all."
She gives me a crooked smile, one side of her mouth tugging up. "Yeah, well, don't disappear, alright? This place sucks when you're the only real one left."
I look at her, see the worry hiding behind her half-smile and try to shrug it off. "I'll be fine."
"Uh huh," she says, pushing off the amp. She lowers her voice. "Hey—Gia's missing. Management says her shifts'll get split up for now. Don't talk about it to anyone, okay? If clients ask, we don't know anything." She tries for casual but her mouth is tight. "Text me if you want out early. Or if you just want to talk shit."
She's gone before I can answer, swallowed by the blur of the hallway.
I stand there a moment, listening to the muffled beat and the sound of my own breath. The club noise feels distant, like I'm behind glass, not part of it. When I finally grab my bag and head out, the city's cold breath hits my skin, sharp and sobering.
The walk back to Megablock 8 is a shuffle through puddles and neon shadows. I watch my boots move, counting steps, trying not to think about Gia. Each block feels longer at night. By the time I reach my flat, the hallway's quiet except for a couple voices echoing up from the stairwell.
The city's hum presses against the window, a sound too tired to be called music. My mattress groans as I drop onto it, shoving Velvet's lace away and tugging on an old tank. Cold air nips at my knees. The cinderblock walls loom close, scabbed with old graffiti and a rust line that looks like a scar. I let out a shaky breath and stare at the ceiling until my eyes sting.