Morning comes slow and pale. I'm sprawled across my futon with the holo-tab's glow still painting the dark circles under my eyes. Sometime between chasing phantom numbers and grinding my teeth, I must have passed out. Now a tinny buzz from the tab's low battery alarm worms into my skull. I rub my face and taste stale lipstick and desperation.
In the weak light sneaking through my blinds, I see it on the nightstand: the black card. It's still as a predator at rest, inert black plastic with that frosted logo facing up. For once, it isn't pulsing. Maybe it knows I barely have the energy to be afraid right now. I reach out and lay a fingertip on it. It's cool this morning, playing dead.
Easy answers rarely come free – I remind myself of that mantra as I yank my hand back and sit up.
A dull ache drums behind my eyes. Last night's revelations hang over me: missing tips siphoned off, coworkers acting like I'm plague, the looming specter of Stairways to Heaven behind it all. My account balance blinked danger-red on my holo-tab before it died. Rent is due in a week, and I'm short – far shorter than I should be. Someone made sure of that.
I drag myself to the sink and splash water on my face until I can almost feel human. In the mirror, a gaunt-eyed ghost stares back. "Get a grip," I whisper, voice cracking. Velvet's long gone for now; it's just Lyra, exhausted and angry and scared. I have to do something.
By habit, I pull on my work clothes – knee-high boots (scuffed, one heel glued on twice), fishnets with a fresh tear at the thigh, a leather mini-skirt and a strappy black top. The uniform of resilience. The club hasn't messaged me not to come in, and despite everything I need whatever meager credits I might scrape up tonight. Pride won't pay the bills or find out who's bleeding me dry.
Before I leave, I tuck the black card into a hidden inner pocket of my jacket. It's dangerous – maybe a beacon, maybe bait – but it's also the only concrete link I have to the puppeteers pulling my strings. If shit goes south, maybe it can become leverage. Or an escape. The thought curdles in my gut, but I ignore it.
Outside, the late afternoon city air hits me like a damp rag. Smog-filtered sunlight turns the streets a sickly orange. I keep to the edges of the sidewalk as I walk to Chrome Daisy. Neon signs are flickering awake one by one even though dusk is still an hour off. A couple of kids spray-paint graffiti over an old cyber-prosthetics billboard, and the advertisement's digital eye tracks them with apathetic interest. The city doesn't care. It just watches while we vandalize its corpse.
By the time I reach the block, the familiar thump of bass from the Chrome Daisy's speakers is already leaking into the street. A Closed sign hangs crooked on the door – must be doing late opening again. I rap on the metal twice and Big Roman cracks it open. His bulk fills the doorway, a hulk in a tattered suit, eyes narrowing until he recognizes me.
"You on the roster tonight?" he grunts.
"Unless you know something I don't," I answer, trying to slip past him. He doesn't move.
For a second, Roman's gaze softens with a hint of pity. That's new. "Wait a sec, Velvet." The use of my stage name is automatic, reflexive. It makes my shoulders tense. He steps aside only after a deliberate pause, letting me squeeze through.
Inside, the air is heavy with disinfectant and stale beer. The lights are half-on, casting the empty tables in a gloomy red haze. Mace isn't at the bar – instead I see an unfamiliar silhouette rummaging around, stocky shoulders under a too-big hoodie. A new barback, maybe.
I head straight to the back, where the dressing rooms and lockers are. If the manager's around, he's probably holed up in his office like a rat king counting crumbs. With any luck, he'll have some answers about the missing money. Or an excuse. I'm not picky – I just want to see him sweat when I confront him.
The hallway to the office is dim, one fluorescent panel busted and sparking. My boots stick slightly to the floor with each step – someone didn't mop after last night. Typical. I push on the manager's door. It's locked. I lean in, hearing muffled music bleeding from inside, and something else… voices?
I raise a fist to pound on the door, but it swings open suddenly, making me stumble back. Colm, our club manager, looms in the doorway. He's a thin man with a greasy combover and permanent stress carved between his brows. Right now those brows shoot up in surprise to see me.
"Lyra," he says, too quickly, then corrects: "Velvet. I didn't know you were scheduled." His eyes flick behind him briefly as he steps out, pulling the door shut. I glimpse another figure in the office – looks like a woman, tall and lithe – before the door clicks closed and Colm positions himself in front of it.
The hairs on my neck rise. "I am scheduled. Graveyard shift again, remember? What's going on, Colm? You got company?"
He clears his throat. "Just inventory business. Nothing for you to worry about."
Bullshit. Inventory isn't a dame in heels – I definitely saw a stiletto in there. But I'm not here to pry into his extracurriculars. I jab a finger at his chest. "We need to talk. My tips have been light. Real light."
Colm's expression hardens. "Not here. Later, okay?"
"It is later. I tried to catch you last night, but you were AWOL. Now I find hundreds of creds missing from my payouts. That's not an accounting error, that's theft." I'm practically hissing. Colm glances around nervously.
"Keep your voice down," he mutters. "It's— it's complicated. We had some... adjustments from corporate."
"Corporate?" The word leaves a bitter taste. Chrome Daisy isn't some fancy chain franchise. It's a seedy independent dive, unless that changed overnight. "Don't feed me that. Who's skimming off us? Is it you? Or someone leaning on you?"
His jaw works soundlessly for a second. Sweat breaks on his upper lip. That tells me enough—he's scared. "I can't—" he starts, but before he finishes, the dressing room door bangs open.
In strides Sable, and the temperature of my mood goes from simmer to boil. Sable is new-ish, transferred from another club uptown. I've seen her around just a couple weeks, long enough to know she's trouble. She's tall, with dark violet hair cascading in waves down her back, and a body engineered to draw eyes—whether by nature or by a black-market surgeon, who knows. Right now she's wearing an outfit almost identical to mine, only in red, and she carries it with a kind of lethal grace that screams don't mess with me.
"Well, well," Sable purrs, eyeing the scene. "Manager meetings in hallways? How intimate."
Colm shoots her a warning glare. "Not now, Sable."
She ignores him and focuses on me, her painted black lips curling into a smile that doesn't reach her ice-blue eyes. "Velvet, you're early. Eager to get those prime sets back?"
I clench my fists at my sides. "Just handling business."
Sable steps closer, one hand on her hip. "If it's about tips, you really should take it up with the accountant, not poor Colm. We all know it's tough times." Her voice is syrupy with fake sympathy.
I narrow my eyes. There's something triumphant in her tone. It clicks. She knows. Maybe she doesn't know details, but she knows I'm being screwed. Hell, might even be in on it.
"Don't worry about my business," I say evenly. "You should get ready for your set."
Sable flicks her hair over her shoulder and gives a small laugh. "Oh, I am ready. In fact, I was just about to go on." She glances at Colm. "Since Rhea's gone MIA and management decided to shuffle things, I've got some extra stage time tonight."
I feel the words like a slap. "Extra stage time? You mean my slot."
Colm raises his palms, as if to placate. "Velvet, look—"
I don't let him finish. "Are you kidding me? You replace me on main stage without telling me, after cutting my shifts to the dregs? What the hell, Colm!" My voice reverberates down the hallway. I'm dimly aware I sound unhinged, but I can't stop. The betrayal, the fear, the anger of the past days all fuse into a cocktail of rage.