Two.
Three.
I drop the bass so hard the room explodes.
Eclipse belongs to me.
For forty-three minutes, I don’t belong to pain. I don’t belong to Cherry’s ghost baby. I don’t belong to Shady’s lie, Carmen’s spite, or Toro’s hands. I belong to sound. To lights. To every body moving because I tell them to. Sweat gleams. Drinks spill. Men scream my name like a prayer with lip gloss on it.
Then the screens change.
Not mine.
Not my visuals.
The Eclipse logo glitches once. Twice. Then a blind item fills every screen in the club.
ROAD CAPTAIN’S LOST BABY. CLUBHOUSE REDHEAD. GLITTER GIRL REPLACEMENT.
The crowd shifts like an animal smelling blood.
My music keeps playing because my hands stay moving.
Thank God for muscle memory.
A photo flashes next. Grainy hallway. Shady outside a room. Cherry’s door. Another image: me onstage, glittering under lights, spliced beside a white rose.
Text rolls across the screen.
SOME WOMEN GET PATCHES. SOME GET PREGNANT. SOME GET REPLACED.
The room gasps.
Phones shoot higher.
My cheeks burn.
Not with shame.
With fury so bright I almost smile.
Carmen, you polished, miserable, sin vergüenza bitch.
You should have known better than to hand a DJ the sound system.
I kill the track.
The sudden silence drops like a body.
Then I take the mic.
My hand shakes once. Only once.
“Miami,” I say.
The crowd screams, confused and hungry.
I smile into the lights.
