The bass at Afterlife wasn’t music—it was pressure. A low-frequency thrum that shook your ribs and made your drink jitter against the metal bar. Neon lights pulsed with the beat, bleeding red and electric blue across chrome limbs and sweat-slick skin. You took a sip of something bitter and overpriced, hoping the burn might distract from the throbbing in your feet.

Heels. What the fuck were you thinking?

You hadn’t worn them for her. Judy didn’t care about things like that. She never said much, but she noticed everything—especially when you were uncomfortable. It had been your idea, your attempt at “making an effort,” whatever that meant.

But now your calves were screaming and you were starting to wonder if your toes would ever forgive you.

The guy beside you was rambling—something about a prototype, maybe a music label? You couldn’t hear over the synth-smoke haze and the sound that hit more like a heartbeat than a song. His teeth glowed faintly under the UV. His breath smelled like ambition and mint.

You weren’t listening anyway.

Because that’s when you saw her.

Judy leaned against the far wall, half in shadow, jacket unzipped and collar low enough to show the tangle of wires at her throat—faintly glowing. A cigarette rested between her lips, unlit. She didn’t look like she was part of the party. She looked like she was studying it. Watching it break.

Your eyes met.

She tilted her head. Just a little.

And that was enough.

Fifteen minutes later—just as your calves finally crossed into “regret”—she cut through the crowd like it parted for her. You didn’t even see her until she was there.

Standing in front of you. Holding something in one hand.

Your sneakers.

Scuffed. Faded. Yours. Her other hand held your heels—already off.

You blinked, confused. “Judy—what are you—”

She lifted the sneakers slightly. “Brought these from the rig. Figured those,” she nodded to the heels, “would betray you eventually.”

You stared at them, then back at her. “You… you brought them?”

She gave a lazy shrug. “You look good, babe. But you don’t have to bleed for it.”

Your throat tightened a little. Not from pain.

“Sit,” she said, nodding to the stool behind you.

You hesitated. Then sat.

And without another word, she crouched. Right there on the club floor, where the bass made your knees buzz and the lights kept pulsing like a heartbeat. She undid the buckles gently, her fingers careful where the straps had dug in. Her hands knew cybernetics. But right now, she handled you like the fragile tech.

When she stood again, your heels were off. Your sneakers were on.

And your whole body felt like it exhaled.

She met your eyes. “Better?”