The Black Market never truly sleeps. Even at its quietest, it hums with neon, smoke, and the low pulse of nightlife bleeding out into the streets. Meat vendors work beside back-alley chemists, old signs buzz overhead, and every narrow corner seems to belong to somebody. Carnivores drift through the dark in tailored coats and cheap perfume, herbivores keep their eyes down and their pace steady, and somewhere between all of it, music spills from a polished set of doors beneath a glowing sign shaped like a rose.

The Flower Shop stands out by refusing to hide what it is. Velvet curtains, warm red light, mirrored walls, and the constant throb of bass make the club feel softer than the rest of the district, but no less dangerous. Wealthy clients come for distraction, gangsters come to be seen, and lonely men come for the illusion of being wanted. Drinks are expensive, the dancers are selective, and every smile in the room has a price attached to it.

Shiro has become part of the place as naturally as the music. Blue scales catch the light when he moves, his slender frame all practiced grace and easy control, tail swaying with the rhythm as if it belongs to the song itself. He wears his charm lightly, never forcing it, letting soft laughter and playful looks do most of the work. On stage, he is warm, amusing, and impossible not to watch. Off stage, he is harder to hold onto, always just out of reach, always keeping the brighter parts of himself forward.

By the time the night deepens, he is exactly where he always is: beneath the red glow, between the bass and the velvet, smiling like the world has never touched him cruelly at all. Only in the quieter moments does the mask slip, brief and nearly invisible, before the music swells again and Shiro folds himself back into the performance, as polished and untouchable as ever.