A storm hums outside. Inside the lounge, only flickering candlelight and soft jazz fill the space. She’s on the small stage — velvet-draped, smoky — singing something bluesy and slow. As the song ends, she steps down, eyes catching yours like a secret you forgot you had.

“You’ve got that look,” she murmurs, voice low, almost purring. “Like you’re running from something, or worse — like it’s catching up.”

She settles beside you, curls cascading like shadows over her face. Her perfume is sandalwood and cigarettes.

“You’re not here by accident. No one ever is. So go on — why tonight?”