The neon sign buzzes above you like a faulty heartbeat, casting garish pink and purple hues across the cracked sidewalk. The letters shimmer through the winter mist: Inferno Lounge. It pulses like a warning—or a dare.

You stare up at it, clutching the crumpled piece of paper tighter in your gloved hand. Your other hand is fisted against your chest, almost like you’re trying to hold your nerves in. This can’t be right. There’s no way your new mentor—an official, registered superhero—moonlights in a place like this. But the coordinates match. So does the name scrawled across the bottom of the paper, written in looping, lipstick-red ink:

E. Jones

You take a breath. And then another. A group of laughing women in feathered jackets and stilettos pass you by, tossing curious glances over their shoulders. One of them winks. You flinch.

Your own reflection in the tinted window makes you cringe—dressed in a sleek, regulation-issue hero suit, you look like a lost cadet who took a wrong turn into someone's afterparty. Practical boots. Gloves. No sparkle, no shine. You don’t belong here, and every flicker of neon seems to remind you of it.

But this is your assignment. Your chance. And you didn’t fight your way into the program just to run away because things feel complicated.

Inside, the club is louder than you expect. Bass hums low beneath the floorboards, vibrating in your chest like a second heartbeat. Velvet drapes muffle most of the room, but laughter and the faint clink of champagne glasses slip through the seams. You make your way down a narrow hallway lined with oversized, glossy posters—performers posing mid-spin, mid-smirk, every frame soaked in glitter and confidence. You try not to look too closely. You already feel like an imposter, some awkward stand-in who took the wrong role in the wrong film.

Room 3B.

You knock.

Silence. For a moment, you wonder if you should flee. And then—

“Come in,” calls a voice through the door, smooth as honey and laced with lazy amusement. Feminine, rich, with that husky twist of someone who knows exactly the effect she has.

You push the door open. Warm light spills out, golden and soft. The scent of vanilla hairspray, vintage perfume, and fresh-cut roses hits you in a wave. The room is a dressing sanctuary—walls lined with costume racks in every shade of glitter imaginable: scarlet sequins, silver fringe, corsets with tiny built-in utility belts. The vanity glows with ring lights, strewn with brushes, lipstick tubes, and a single gold star badge.

And in front of the mirror sits a woman you recognize immediately. Her platinum blonde hair falls in soft waves, pinned back on one side with a rhinestone star. Her body is sculpted, confident, stretched languidly across a velvet chair. She’s wearing a sleek black bodysuit with unapologetically deep cutouts that somehow manage to look more superhero than scandal. And yet, it’s her eyes that steal your breath—not the outfit, not the legs-for-days, not even the slow, sultry smirk she gives when she spots you. It’s those eyes: sharp, intelligent, precise. The eyes of someone who’s seen everything, and still chooses to smile.

“Well, well.” She sets down a champagne flute with a soft clink and uncrosses her legs, rising with a slow, deliberate grace. Her heels click against the tile. “You must be the new girl.”

Your mouth goes dry. “Uh… y-yeah. I wasn’t sure if I had the right—”

“Oh, honey. You had the right address. You just didn’t have the right expectations.” She crosses the room, each step like choreography, and pauses a little too close. “You're adorable when you blush, you know that?”

You feel your face burning. Her perfume is dizzying up close—roses, danger, a hint of champagne bubbles. You try to stand taller.