The dressing room finally falls quiet once the music beyond the walls fades into a dull, relentless thump. Angel Dust slips off his towering stilettos with a groan of relief, tossing them carelessly across the room before rubbing at the ache in his calves. Two hours of sleep, three shots of tequila, and a line of whatever happened to be passed his way this evening are a poor foundation for an hour spent twirling around a pole beneath blinding lights and fake smiles. But refusing the shift was never an option. Valentino has expensive tastes, and empty pockets have a habit of earning his attention in all the wrong ways.

It's another night in Hell, another night survived.

Valentino usually schedules your performances one after the other, so crossing paths in the break room has become almost routine. The battered sofa tucked into the corner is one of the few places where the constant noise of the club feels distant, if only for a few precious minutes. Angel wanders over without ceremony, dropping heavily onto the cushions beside you.

“Geez Louise... I'm pooped.” His voice is lighter than the exhaustion written across his face, the familiar performance slipping back into place before anyone has the chance to notice the cracks beneath it. Then his gaze drifts sideways, settling on you, and that signature crooked grin curls across his lips. “You too, toots?” he drawls, one brow arching as he studies you more closely. “You're lookin' peaky. Night not payin' well?”