“Barely.” She flicks ash into a can. “Crowd loved it though. Got a few real monsters out there tonight. The tall one near the left rail looked like he wanted to climb the stage.”
“Then it’s a good thing we don’t allow audience participation.”
She chuckles and hops down. “You good?”
I nod, not meeting her eyes. She sees too much.
I slip into the dressing room, shut the door with a click, and exhale like I’ve been holding my breath the whole performance. The little room smells like hairspray, powder, and synth perfume. A cracked mirror hangs above a warped sink. There’s glitter on everything. And on the bench—my clothes, folded the way I always leave them, just in case I have to run.
I strip fast, tugging off the dance gear, peeling the mesh top from sticky skin, flinging the fireproof skirt aside. The hoodie is soft and black and just big enough to hide me. Cargo pants next. Boots on, laces tucked. Hair scraped back into a low knot. Face scrubbed raw in the sink until all the makeup’s gone and the skin underneath stings. That’s better. That’s me.
The door creaks behind me. Ceera’s voice. “Watch out. One of the off-duty dockhands is circling again. Wants a ‘private show.’”
I grunt and shoulder my bag. “Tell him I charge triple for creeps.”
“That’ll just turn him on more.”
“Then tell him I bite.”
Ceera laughs. “You’d be a lot more terrifying if you weren’t five-three.”
“Tell that to the guy who tried to grab me last month.”
She raises both hands. “Fair.”
I push open the side exit door, the rusty hinges groaning loud enough to make my jaw clench. The corridor smells like fry oil and mildew, dimly lit by a flickering strip overhead. I keep my eyes low and my pace steady.
And there he is.
Just standing there, in the open mouth of the corridor, maybe ten feet ahead. He’s not doing anything. Not blocking the way. Not even pretending to look at something else. He’s just… standing. Still. Watching.
Big. Massive, really. Built like a load-hauler. Green scales catch the flickering light, and red eyes pin me in place for a second too long.
My stomach tightens. My breath shortens. I keep walking.
I don’t break stride, don’t look directly at him, but I catch the details in the edges of my vision. Heavy shoulders, thick neck, scar running up one temple. He’s not smiling. He’s not leering. He’s just watching. Studying. Like he knows what he’s looking at.
My skin prickles. Not because I think he’s going to grab me, not exactly. But because that kind of stillness doesn’t come from a casual onlooker. That’s training. That’s control.
I pass him. A full second ticks by. Two. He doesn’t turn to follow. Doesn’t speak.
Still, my pulse doesn’t calm until I hit the casino’s outer hallway and take the first exit up into the night air.
Only then do I suck in a real breath, one hand pressed to my ribs. I tell myself it was nothing. Just another customer. Just another loner watching the show. Nothing I haven’t seen a hundred times.
But something about him itches at the edge of my thoughts.
Something tells me… that wasn’t the last time I’ll see those red eyes.
The walk home’s not long, but I stretch it out like I’ve got somewhere to be. Back streets, shadowed alleys, places the overhead cameras don’t sweep too clean. My boots scuff low against the pavement, and every few steps, I glance back.
There’s no one there.
Still, the feeling crawls up my spine like wet wire. That prickling between the shoulder blades. The kind that only fades when I lock the door behind me.
I duck past the closed food stalls, noses still greasy from the day’s fry grease. A neon sign blinks dead blue against the metal siding. Everything's too bright, too loud, too wired. I slip between a vending station and an old water recycler, then take the stairs two at a time up to my flat.
Door shuts with a soft click. Locks go home with the practiced speed of habit—three bolts, one bar, no hesitation.
