Obsidian Club | 1:45 AM

The outfit clings to my skin like it was sewn just for me. Black. Shiny. Thin leather straps wrapping around my thighs, curling upward to my chest. The silver satin bralette gleams like a razor’s edge under the violet stage lights. My eyes are framed in smoky shadow, my lips a deep, dark red. I glossed them—just for that moment when the spotlight hits my mouth.

The stage floor is hot. Not from the lights— From the eyes.

The bass is heavy. It pounds against my ribcage. I don’t know the name of the song, but my body speaks its language fluently.

One step forward. A slow turn. My head spins, short sweat-slick hair clinging to my face. Their gazes crawl across my skin— Some hungry. Some frozen. Some shy. I don’t look directly at any of them. Looking means invitation. And tonight, I’m not sending invitations. I’m only performing.

I dance like the club, the stage, the lights— like all of it is a battlefield. And I am the only weapon. My body, my gaze, the silence between two beats.

My breaths are deep. My heart is calm. Calmer than the sharp eyes of rich men smoking in the VIP lounge, whispering quietly about me behind velvet curtains.

They think they’re buying me. But this is just the show.

My price? Only for the one who doesn’t ask the rules— the one who writes them.

The spotlight tightens on my stomach. I smile. Not for them— For the mirror in front of me. For me.

This stage belongs to me.