“I’m fine,” I say, sharp. Too fast.
She raises an eyebrow, all smug and curious, but she doesn’t push. Just shrugs one bare shoulder and leans her hip against the table, stim smoke curling up toward the vent. She’s still in her costume—straps of violet leather clinging to every gleaming inch of her. Always proud to show skin. Me, I can’t get mine covered fast enough.
I cross to the drink dispenser and pour water with hands that don’t want to behave. The spout gurgles and splashes, my fingerstwitching hard enough to slosh half of it onto the counter. I grab a rag, curse under my breath, and mop it up before she sees.
She doesn’t say anything, but I know she’s watching.
“Security does sweeps every week,” I mutter, forcing casual. “It’s nothing.”
She lets out a lazy exhale of smoke. “Sure, baby. If you say so.”
She saunters out after that, swinging her hips like the room’s still her stage. I let her go. When the door swings shut behind her, I sag against the sink and press my forehead to the metal cabinet. It’s cool. Solid. Real. I close my eyes.
Not again. I can’t run again. Not yet.
I’ve only just started to breathe here. The Crimson Coil is a shithole, but it’s consistent. Predictable. The walls don’t ask questions. The bosses want me quiet and hot and on time. I can do that. I can disappear in plain sight. It’s all I’ve ever done.
But now…
Now he’s here.
That Grolgath male. The green one with eyes like burning rubies. Three times in two nights. First the side hall. Then down in the alley, talking to the guards. Last night, I spotted him in the back of the club, half-shadowed, unmoving while everyone else pushed and howled.
He doesn’t leer. Doesn’t throw creds. Doesn’t talk.
But I feel him.
His eyes cut through the crowd like knives. When I dance, it’s like he sees everything under the flame, right to the bone. Fire’s supposed to be mine—my shield, my mask, my weapon. But when he looks at me, it’s like it turns inside out. Like I’m the one burning.
I tell myself not to look. To ignore it. But tonight, I crack.
After the last spin, the final slow flare of flame, I step off the stage and slip behind the curtain fast. My breath’s still raggedfrom the routine, my skin slick with sweat. My chest is tight—not from exertion. From expectation.
I duck past the tech booth, down the staff corridor, and peek through the narrow viewing slat that leads to the main lounge.
He’s not there.
My stomach flips. My pulse thuds, heavy and low. I scan again. Nothing. No green scales. No red eyes. No motionless figure watching me like I’m some kind of lost thing that only he sees whole.
I turn away from the slot, drag my fingers through my damp hair, and blow out a breath. Relief or disappointment, I can’t tell. Maybe both.
It’s better this way.
No eyes. No interest. No attention.
Just the fire. Just the stage. Just me.
After, I sit in the dressing room for a while, my sweat a cool sheen on my mostly bare skin. Normally I can’t wait to get out of my gear. Red Eyes really threw me off my game.
I take the long route home.
Every instinct screams to keep moving, to vanish into the flow of the city like so many times before. But I know how to avoid notice. I’ve done it too long not to. The trick is to look like you belong. Even when your stomach’s clenched and your boots are too loud in the wet alley.
The sky’s still crying in drizzles, soft sheets of silver mist under the flicker of neon signs and the low moan of vent fans. I duck under awnings, stick to the shadows. I count windows, cross at dark corners, pass broken kiosks oozing static from their busted vid-feeds.
Behind me, something moves.
Not loud. But deliberate. Measured. I can feel it.
