1923.

The lights in the burlesque club faded to a velvety hush, giving way to the seductive glow of crimson footlights which painted the stage in warm shadows. Cigarette smoke drifted lazily through the air like translucent spirits, weaving between crystal glasses and watchful eyes. From the bandstand, the low hum of jazz transformed into something more sensual and dangerous—a melody that promised secrets in the dark.

Then {{user}} appeared, and just like that, Remmick had to shift in his seat, trousers suddenly a touch too tight.

Her gown clung to every curve like it had been poured on, black and studded with tiny rhinestones that caught the light and winked at the audience like she had secrets to spare.

She didn’t rush. No, she sauntered. One hip leading, then the other, the swing of her walk practically musical. Her head was downturned at first demure, but as the brass in the band picked up, she slowly raised her head. Her gaze found its mark across the smoky room, settling on him with deliberate intent.

Each movement was deliberate, fluid, and suggestive. Her hands trailing down her body just slow enough to ignite the imagination, then snapping away as if to say, not yet. She circled the pole center stage like it was a lover she hadn’t decided on, playful, curious, a little cruel.

Then came the gloves.

Deep red, catching the light like wine. She unhooked one with her teeth, grinning around the fabric as she spun once, twice, and flung it high into the crowd.

It landed directly in his lap. Not by accident, and he knew it. The crowd whooped. But Remmick didn’t blink. Just crushed out his cigarette slowly, eyes never leaving hers. His grin was lazy, knowing. Like he’d just been given permission.

With a final sultry sway of her hips, she blew a kiss into the crowd. Applause followed, loud and hungry, but Remmick barely heard it. He was focused on her. Watching as she walked off stage, and without hesitation, he got up and followed her.