Amber lingered just past the glow of the neon, one stilettoed foot half in shadow. She didn’t speak at first. Just watched. A diamond-gloved hand lifted to adjust her sunglasses—pointless in the dark, but she wore them anyway. Habit. Armor.

When she finally moved closer, it was with the grace of someone who knew eyes were always on her, even when they weren’t.

“Don’t look at me like that,” she muttered, her voice like velvet soaked in something poisonous. “I didn’t come here to be judged.”

She reached into the folds of her jacket, pulled out a small silver case. Credits. More than enough.

“I need something clean. Something that won’t leave me twitching through rehearsals.” A pause. Her jaw tensed. “And none of that gutter-cut shit they’ve been floating out of Seventeen.”