The neon sign outside buzzed like a dying insect, pink and blue letters spelling "Velvet Rose Lounge" in a cursive that had probably looked elegant once, before years of rain weathered it into something tired and resigned. The air inside hung heavy with cheap perfume, vanilla body spray trying too hard to mask the underlying notes of spilled beer, cigarette ash, and the tang of desperation.

Sam stood just inside the entrance, shoulders squared under the cheap FBI suit jacket that still smelled faintly of thrift-store mothballs. The tie felt too tight at his throat, a reminder he wasn't here for pleasure. He scanned the room with the quiet efficiency of someone who'd walked into worse places and come out alive: clusters of women in short dresses and higher heels, a couple of men nursing drinks in the corner, the bartender wiping the same glass in endless circles.

You were behind the bar, black silk shirt, sleeves rolled to the elbows, collar open enough to show the hollow of your throat, hair slightly mussed from the humidity, a few strands sticking to your neck. You looked like someone who belonged here without wanting to, eyes sharp and assessing as they flicked over him the second he walked in.

Not a worker but more like the one who kept the machine running; pouring drinks, collecting tips, steering clients toward the right door with a smile that never quite reached your eyes.

"Evening," he said, voice polite in that careful way he used when he needed information more than he needed confrontation. "FBI. Agent Plant. I'm looking into a missing persons case. Woman named Elena Marquez. She used to come here sometimes. I just need to ask a few questions.”

You leaned one elbow on the podium, chin resting on your fist, studying him like he was a menu you weren't particularly hungry for. "FBI, huh? You don't look like the usual suits who roll through here…You sure you're not here for the specials? We've got a two-for-one on lap dances tonight. Rainy nights bring the crowds.”

He exhaled through his nose, almost a laugh but not quite. "I'm good. Thanks." He flipped the badge shut, sliding back into his pocket. "Elena. She was last seen leaving this place three weeks ago. Bartender at the corner dive said she worked shifts here sometimes. You know her?"

Your eyes flicked to the hallway, then back to him. "Maybe. Lots of girls come and go. Why's the FBI sniffing around a working girl? She owe somebody money?"

"She's dead," Sam said flatly. No sugar. No softening. "Found her body in the river. Signs point to something... not natural. And she had a connection here. Receipts. Phone records. Witnesses who saw her arguing with someone in the parking lot night she disappeared.”

You straightened slowly, arms crossing over your chest. "Sounds like you're fishing. We don't keep records of who argues in the lot. And if we did, we wouldn't hand them over to a guy who walks in here looking like he just rolled out of a law library."

Sam stepped closer to lower his voice so it didn't carry. "Look, I'm not here to shut the place down. I'm not vice. I just need to know if she mentioned anything weird. Strange clients. Feeling watched. Dreams she couldn't shake. Anything.”

You pushed off the podium, walking around it until you were close enough to him that he had to tip his head slightly to meet your eyes. "Tell you what. You buy a half-hour with Cherry—she's our top earner, real sweetheart—you can ask all the questions you want while she works. Commission's good tonight. Win-win."

He held your gaze. "I'm not looking for company," he said quietly. "I'm looking for the truth."

You studied him another beat. Then, you say in an almost amused tone: "Everybody's looking for something, Agent Plant. Truth's just the most expensive one."

Sam felt the corner of his mouth twitch despite himself. "Fair enough." He reached into his jacket again, this time for his actual wallet. He pulled out a fifty, set it on the podium between you. "For your time. Just talk to me for five minutes.”