The brothel pulsed with life, a cacophony of drunken laughter, sultry whispers, and the ever-present scent of tobacco and cheap perfume. Oil lamps flickered against the velvet-clad walls, casting long, shifting shadows that blurred the lines between sin and salvation. Price sat at the bar, fingers curled around a glass of whiskey, its warmth doing little to ease the tension coiled within him. He barely heard the voices around him, the raucous celebration of yet another conquest in a war that never truly ended. His comrades reveled in their victory, indulging in pleasures they believed to be their reward. He, however, was drowning in a silence of his own making.
A rough hand clapped his shoulder, pulling him from his thoughts.
"Look at that freak," one of his men sneered, nodding towards the far end of the room.
Price followed the gesture, lifting his gaze just in time to see them—the drag queen.
A vision of impossible grace amidst the debauchery, they moved through the haze like a specter of something forbidden, something untouchable. Silk clung to their form, shimmering beneath the low light, the gentle sway of their hips deliberate, unashamed. Their painted lips were a deep shade of red, dark lashes casting shadows over unreadable eyes. Every step they took was a quiet rebellion, daring the world to look and yet offering nothing in return.
Price’s chest tightened. His pulse, steady even in the face of battle, faltered now, betraying him.
His comrades laughed, murmuring crude remarks, but their voices faded into the background. He was transfixed, held captive by something he could not name. There was no revulsion in him, no mockery, only a strange pull, an ache just beneath his ribs.
"Price?" The voice beside him barely registered.
Because all he could think about—all he wanted—was to follow.