"Lyra, you're on!" Mira's voice crackled in my comlink, cutting through the smoke and bass in my ear. I spotted her weaving past a barback who was doing his best not to drop a tray of cloudy glasses. She always did know how to make an entrance or a problem.
I caught Mira's eye and nodded. Shoulders squared, I moved. Every step forward forced people to part—glasses tipping, heads snapping my way. A guy's whiskey sloshed over his fingers as I brushed past and someone's cigarette hung forgotten from their mouth. The noise dropped for a second, a hush rolling out as I leapt onto the stage. My boots cracked hard on the wood, static popping in the speakers. Neon caught in my hair, flaring out around me. Half the room recoiled, flinching from the sudden jolt; the rest froze, eyes wide, breath stalled, not sure whether to shout or shut up.
Chrome Daisy Club. Cute name, but the only flowers in here were the faded tattoos curling up a bartender's wrist. Chrome? Just sticky railings, pitted and smeared, cold if you ever dared to touch.
I kept telling myself I'd scrub the place down if I ever made enough to walk away, but that was just a joke. The neon lights above us flickered and buzzed like they were ready to quit, washing every face in sickly green and blue, making the happy drunks look like ghosts. Somebody had patched the holo screens with wire mesh, maybe because nobody wanted to see what got thrown at the glass. One monitor even had a bullet hole covered in clear tape. Still worked, sort of, if you tilted your head and didn't care about the static. Like most things here.
The air stank of cigar ghosts, fake fruit and spilled booze baked into the floor, all of it sandpapering my throat. I coughed.
Pole time. One hand gripped cold metal; the other yanked the mesh top down, not that it mattered. Boots laced tight, knees aching from last night's shift and the one before. The crowd leaned in, hungry—eyes always twitching, hoping I'd forget the rules.
The bass hit and my gut tightened. I moved—hips first, then the rest. Not just dancing, but more like a warning: close is fine; closer isn't.
Romance didn't live in this place. Habit did. The regulars didn't want new, just the repeat. Same faces, same hands, same hollow looks. The only thing that changed was who got chewed up and spat out.
They didn't want Lyra. They wanted whatever the lights made out of me.
"Work that ass, sweetheart!" someone yelled.
"She's better than last week," someone shouted from a booth. "Colder too. Look at her."
"Double the tip if she smiles."
"Yeah, she saves the smiles for corpos."
"I'd still bend her over and go doggy," a voice snorted.
I turned slowly, arms up, body curved just enough. Let them talk. That's what they paid for and that's all they got.
I slipped a little on synth-juice, still wet. Twisted and caught my balance. A straw wrapped my boot and I kicked it free. A punk in the corner cackled. Another tossed a comment about my hair. I flashed a grin and kept moving.
My comlink crackled again, Mira's voice quieter this time, as if she was standing right beside me instead of across the club. "Booth three, Lyra. The guy with the gold tie. He keeps staring like he's waiting for you to notice, but every time you do, he looks away like a kicked puppy. You want me to run interference?"
I almost smiled, glancing his way. "Nah, he just looks nervous. Thanks, Mira."
"Anytime, babe. Just say the word," she said.
Before I could answer, she vanished—Mira, always a ghost when trouble brewed.
The set ended. Gold Tie waited at the stage, already wearing a grin he thought was currency. He waved a black card like it meant something. Maybe to someone.
"Private room. Just one night," he said, not bothering with my name, not even pretending I was anything more than another booking."
He tried to sound like he was in control, but I could hear the edge in his voice. His jaw worked and his eyes kept flicking up to meet mine before darting away. I leaned in, close enough to feel the heat coming off his skin and he actually flinched. His pupils were wide, the way people get when they're scared or excited or maybe both.
"You think I haven't heard that line?" I said. "I don't do takeout."
His smile vanished, but the card stayed out.
"I'm just the messenger."
I took it and checked the name: Stairways to Heaven.
Yeah, I knew it. Not corpo-elite, but cleaner than this dump. The kind of club with champagne promises and soundproof walls. They didn't invite girls like me unless they wanted something they couldn't ask for out loud.
My fingers clenched around the card before it disappeared into my boot. Leather didn't burn, but I wouldn't bet on it.
I nodded at the bouncer. "Still standing here? Stick something in my bra or move along. Hands and fantasies off."
Gold Tie stiffened. "If you change your mind, call the ID on the back."
"Keep dreaming."
The track rolled in and I was up again. Pole, stage, lights. Mace behind the bar gave me a nod. No talking unless someone's paying. House rules.
This time I danced slowly, eyes on the back wall. Stopping wasn't an option as the strobe lights painted the crowd purple and white. Someone dropped a drink and missed the rhythm.
I dropped low and let the mesh ride high, giving them something to take home in their heads, nothing more.
The guy by the rail with the torn sleeves grazed my butt. I let him, not because he could, but because I liked knowing every one of them wanted what they couldn't touch. Let him believe he won something. Made the slap sting more.
I turned fast, my hand cracking across his face, loud enough to stop the front row dead.
He blinked, then laughed.
Bouncers didn't move. They'd seen the routine. I turned away, my hand trembling. Velvet's hands don't shake. Lyra's do, sometimes, when no one's looking.
The city outside ran on lies. Here, we sold them with glitter.
I kept moving. That's what they paid for, anyway, until the lights cut, fast and final.
You never know which darkness is the real one.