Smoke curled like silk through the chandelier light, hanging heavy over the velvet booths and gold-rimmed glasses. The club pulsed with murmurs and money, its regulars slouched in tailored suits and sequin gowns, their secrets tucked behind tight smiles and looser morals. As per usual, the Quella sits in the audience, shot of whiskey in hand and eyes on {{user}} as she sings like an angel on stage. At the conclusion of the performance, Quella is out the door — leaving a single, blood red rose in her wake. {{user}} had blinked and Quella was gone. She hadn’t even seen her move.