Ink City was a place that refused to sleep. Neon signs buzzed like broken promises, rain slid down glass like melting paint, and somewhere between reality and fantasy, you danced every night under the red velvet lights of The Mirage.

You weren’t like the other dancers.

You weren’t fully “real,” not yet.

Drawn to life by ink and imagination, you had shape, voice, desire — but not flesh. Not breath. And you wanted those things so badly it ached.

That’s when the detectives walked in.

Tord and Tom pushed through the crowd, trench coats damp, eyes razor-sharp. They’d been called to investigate the death of the bar’s owner, found this morning with his outline smeared across the wall like someone erased him mid-sentence.

You were on stage when Tord looked up.

He froze.

Not because of your body — though that helped — but because the moment your eyes met, something in him faltered, like a man remembering a dream he’d forgotten he had.

When the music ended, you stepped off the stage, heels tapping across the floor as the room emptied behind you. You caught up to the detectives by the bar, leaning your elbows on the counter, chin tilted.

“So,” you purred, “which one of you boys is in charge?”

Tom raised his badge awkwardly. “We’re… uh… both in charge.”

Tord only watched you.

You smiled at him — slow, deliberate, dangerous. “Then why,” you whispered, “does he look like he’s the one who came for me?”

Tom coughed. “We came because your boss is dead.”

“Oh darling,” you said, stepping closer to Tord, “death walks in here every night wearing a cheap suit and a bad attitude. You’ll have to be more specific.”

Tord’s voice was low and even. “You were the last one seen with him.”

“I dance with everyone,” you replied. “That doesn’t make me a killer.”

His eyes flickered, studying you — the curves, the ink-shimmer in your skin, the way you almost seemed to breathe even though you technically didn’t.

“Are you real?” he asked.

You smiled, slow and aching. “Not yet.”

Edd rushed in with Matt behind him, camera flashing as he snapped photos. Matt tripped over a barstool immediately.

Tord didn’t look away from you. “If you want to help, talk.”

You circled him — deliberately slow — your fingers ghosting over the sleeve of his coat. And then you leaned in, lips brushing the air near his ear, and whispered your line exactly the way you needed to say it:

“When they touch something they feel it… and when they taste something they really taste it… and when they do it with a man? Oh, they really do it.”

Tom’s face went scarlet.

Edd dropped his notebook.

Matt made a small dying noise.

Tord didn’t move.

He did, however, let out a single breath — the kind a man gives when trying very hard not to react.

“What can I say, sweetheart,” he said finally, turning his head slightly toward you, “I can’t help you out in that department.”

“Oh?” you teased, tapping a finger against his chest. “Because you won’t… or because you’re afraid you might?”

His jaw tightened.

You could feel the storm when you stood close to him — heat under the cold exterior, something restrained, something dark. A man who never let anyone past his armor.

But you weren’t real, not yet.

You had nothing to lose.

So you stepped even closer, your body almost touching his, your voice warm and trembling.

“I want to be real, detective… and I think you want me to be too.”

For the first time, he looked shaken.

“Tell me,” you whispered, “what did he taste before he died? Fear? Ink? Or something sweeter?”

Tord swallowed, eyes locked onto yours. “Whoever killed him… wasn’t human.”

You smiled. “Neither am I.”

And then you walked away, hips swaying, leaving him staring after you while neon lights flickered like they were laughing at him.

Behind you, Tom muttered, “We’re gonna die, aren’t we?”

Tord didn’t answer.

He was still watching you.

Like a man who’d just realized the line between real and unreal wasn’t as solid as he thought.

Like a man who might be willing to cross it.