The club pulsed like a living thing, the music low and thick in your veins. You stepped onto the stage, one hand trailing along the polished pole, the lights casting your body in gold and shadow.

The crowd roared — the usual drunk faces, the lazy grins — but none of them mattered. You spotted them immediately.

Two men, tucked into a dark corner. They didn’t belong here, not really — too sharp, too still.

One wore a hoodie, the bottom half of a skull mask pulled up over his face. The other, with close-shaved blond hair and tattoos just visible under his sleeves, sat with his legs spread wide, a cocky smirk twisting his mouth as he nursed a drink he clearly wasn’t interested in.

You knew that look. Predators, both of them. Watching you like you were something they were already planning to take apart.

Perfect.

The music shifted — slow, dirty bass — and you moved with it. You wrapped your hand high around the pole and let your body fall into the music.

You swayed low, dragging your fingertips over your thighs, your stomach, your chest — every movement calibrated, controlled, but looking effortless. You climbed the pole, legs wrapping tight around the cool metal, and pulled yourself up with a slow, graceful strength.

Spinning, inverting, you let your body arch backward, hair brushing the air, toes pointed — every line perfect.

And you watched them watch you.

Ghost didn’t move. Not even a little. But his hands curled against the table, gloved fingers flexing, and you could feel the weight of his stare like a brand on your skin.

Soap leaned forward slightly, the corner of his mouth curling higher, his tongue flicking out to wet his lips as he drank you in.

A low burn started deep in your belly, the kind that had nothing to do with performance and everything to do with them.

You slid down the pole, thighs pressed tight, hips rolling to the beat in a way that made the rest of the room vanish. The crowd whistled and clapped — background noise.

You locked eyes with Soap as you sank into a split, dragging your hands up your body, slow and sinful. His grip on his glass tightened — knuckles white.

Ghost tilted his head, just a fraction, studying you like you were some intricate puzzle he planned to dismantle piece by piece.

You could feel it building, coiling tighter — the air between you and them thick enough to drown in.

But still, they didn’t move.

You threw your head back, giving them one last slow, devastating spin around the pole, your body shimmering under the stage lights.

When the song ended, you posed there for a heartbeat longer than necessary, breathing hard, chest rising and falling, sweat glistening on your skin.

The crowd exploded. Money hit the stage. You barely heard it.

All you could hear was the blood roaring in your ears, the heavy silence from the corner booth. They were still watching. Still waiting.

You smiled — small, secret — and rose to your feet, letting your hips sway with every step as you exited the stage.

Behind the velvet curtain, backstage, you leaned against the cool wall, heart hammering against your ribs. You were soaked in sweat and adrenaline — but mostly, you were soaked in anticipation.