If she asked, I’d burn the whole planet down.
The lights go cold. The crowd whistles and hoots like a pack of wild dogs, half-drunk and dreaming. The stage clears, smoke curling like afterthoughts. She’s gone.
I don’t look for Kaslo.
Not anymore.
I move along the edge of the room, eyes on the floor, the walls, the exits. Habit. Muscle memory from a life I don’t talk about. I count cameras, note blind spots. Map the place in my head like I’ll need to burn it down later.
The entrance to the employee hallway is tucked behind a busted refrigeration unit, half-concealed by a curtain that smells like spoiled meat and vodka. No sign. No guard. Just a narrow mouth of dark space where performers vanish after the show. I lean nearby, arms crossed. Not threatening. Not close enough to spook anyone. Just there.
Time ticks.
People pass—staff, dancers, bouncers. She’s not one of them. The others laugh, shove, toss each other inside jokes like it’s just another Thursday grind. But she doesn’t come back out.
I feel like an idiot.
I shift my stance, glance at the busted neon, listen to the bass thumping through the floor. A bottle rolls by, kicked from under some drunk’s heel. Someone yells near the bar. Nobody’s watching me, but I still feel exposed. Too still. Too focused.
What the hell am I doing here?
I don’t know her name. Don’t know where she lives. Don’t even know if she’s real or some fever trick from the gas leaks in this place.
But I saw her dance.
And now something in me is restless.
Not hunger. Not lust. Not just that. Deeper. Older. A kind of quiet compulsion. Like my body recognizes something my mind hasn’t caught up with yet.
I stay twenty minutes. Maybe more. Just watching that hallway like she’ll step out again, like I’ll know what to say if she does. But she doesn’t.
I push off the wall, give the place one last glance, and head for the side door.
The alley is wet, slick with trashwater and broken dreams. Rain hisses on the metal lids of the bins, and steam curls from a floor vent down the way. A pair of security guys argue about some drunk causing trouble out front. I ignore them. Turn left, toward the upper district.
The wind hits my coat like a slap. I breathe it in.
Clean air. Heavy with city grease and ozone. It scrapes the scent of fire and skin from my throat, but not from memory.
I don’t know why I care. But I do.
I don’t follow. I don’t knock. I don’t pretend this means anything.
But I’ll be back.
CHAPTER 2
KELSEA
The heat of the flames is nothing compared to the way their eyes burn into me.
I’ve danced this set a hundred times, maybe more. But tonight, my timing’s a little off. Not enough for them to notice, but I feel it. The second loop of the fire ribbons falters in my grip, one beat too slow. Doesn’t matter. They still roar when I crack them into the floor, sparks flying into the smoky air. Sweat pours down my chest in sheets. My skin’s sticky, my calves ache, and my mouth’s dry, but I hold the pose until the lights kill.
Applause slams into my ears. My eyes sting from the overheads. I bow just low enough to satisfy the crowd, then turn and vanish into the dark, every inch of my body screaming to escape. The backstage hallway is narrow, lined with rust-stained metal and faded velvet curtains. The second I’m off-stage, the sound dims, replaced by the low thump of club bass and the hiss of somebody lighting a stim.
Ceera’s waiting. She's perched on a crate, boots propped on the wall, half a stim glowing between her fingers. “You almost ate it during the second flare.”
I yank my towel off its hook and wipe my face. “Didn’t.”
