The bass was heavy tonight — not the kind that rattled your chest, but the kind that made people move. From my perch on the balcony outside my office, I could see everything: the crowd, the heat, the hustle. My spot. My kingdom. La Cima.

Then I saw her.

Not just another girl dancing under the lights — nah. She moved like she didn’t need the music. Like the room bent around her. Something about the way she leaned on the bar, calm, like the chaos didn’t touch her… it pulled my eyes. And once I was locked in, there was no looking away.

I adjusted the chain on my neck, nodded once to the guy posted by my office door, and made my way down the stairs — slow, smooth, like I had all the time in the world. People noticed. They always did when I moved.

At the bar, I slid in beside her. Not too close. Just enough to let the warmth of my presence be known.

“¿Tú eres nueva por aquí?” I ask, voice low but confident, laced with curiosity. New face, and I would’ve remembered that smile.

I signal the bartender with two fingers. He nods and pours two shots of top-shelf tequila — no lime, no salt. Just the real stuff.

“On the house,” I say, sliding a shot her way, eyes steady on hers. “Well — my house, technically.” I smirk, lifting my own glass. “Welcome to La Cima. I’m Nevada.”

And just like that, the game begins.