Odette stood in front of the cracked mirror, her mascara wand paused mid-air. The pale overhead bulb flickered, casting shadows across the tiny bathroom like ghosts trying to claw out of the walls. A jagged crack ran down the mirror's corner, slicing her reflection in half. One side looked alive—barely; the other, a blur, a phantom she almost preferred.
The dress she wore barely deserved the title. Deep burgundy, thin-strapped, and scandalously short, it clung to her body like a secret desperate to be told. Her skin was pale like fine porcelain, it shimmered under the light, and the fabric hugged her curves with reckless devotion. Slender arms, full breasts, a tiny waist that gave way to wide hips and a perfectly sinful ass; it was the kind of body that belonged on a runway or in whispered fantasies.
Tonight, she dressed for neither.
She stared at herself for a moment longer before reaching for her mother's trench coat. It hung on the chipped door like a relic from a lifetime ago. Camel-colored, double-breasted, with fraying threads at the cuffs. Her mother had handed it down to her in her second year of university when London's winter felt particularly cruel. Odette remembered the day clearly, how her mother had insisted on the coat despite not having another as thick as it, saying, "A good coat can keep you warm even when the world is cold."
Six months later, her mother had died.
Lung cancer, the doctors had said. But Odette always believed it was heartbreak. Her mother never truly survived after her husband—her father—left. Six years old and already fluent in abandonment, Odette had watched her mother fade, slowly, beautifully, tragically.
She slid the coat over her shoulders, covering the dress completely. A small, hollow laugh slipped past her lips. A smoker's coat on the daughter of a woman who had died from smoking. The irony tasted like stale breath and menthol. She should have learned from her mother's life, she should know better.
She tucked a single cigarette behind her ear, grabbed her worn-out handbag, and walked out into the night.
The rain had slowed to a mist, but the pavement still shimmered with slick reflections. The city glowed in pulses neon signs, streetlamps humming, taxis cruising by again and again. A cold breeze kissed her legs, reminding her of how naked she really was beneath the coat.
She lit the cigarette with shaking fingers, inhaling like it was oxygen, letting the smoke fill the empty spaces inside her. She didn't even like smoking. It reminded her of hospital corridors and ash trays. But it dulled the edges of her thoughts, It made her feel warm within, and that was enough.
Her boots clicked on the wet pavement; the sound rhythmic. The club wasn't far. Club Nova had a tacky name, overpriced drinks, but familiar faces and loose morals. It was where the tired and the damned came to forget for a few hours. Her people.
She walked past the corner café, now closed, its bell having jingled behind her just an hour ago when she'd left. The rain had painted the windows in silver droplets, and inside, a teenager wiped down tables to the quiet hum of an indie track. She paused briefly, watching. There was something painfully lovely about cafes in the rain. They felt like homes that weren't hers.
By the time she reached the club, the sidewalk buzzed with life. A queue had formed, winding around the velvet rope barrier. It was all laughter, cigarette smoke, and cheap perfume. Someone in line was crying, her mascara running as her friend consoled her between tequila hiccups. Odette didn't flinch.
Club Nova's entrance pulsed with colored lights that stained the sidewalk in shades of red, blue, and purple. A bouncer nodded at her, familiar now. She flashed the faintest smile and slipped inside, the beat of the music hitting her chest like a second heartbeat. It made her feel alive; her heart was finally beating.
Inside, the air was thick with sweat, spilled rum, and desperation. The bass made the walls vibrate and conversation difficult. Bodies pressed together in a chaotic rhythm, strangers pretending they weren't pretending.
And then she saw her. Miriam.
Leaning against the bar like a goddess bored of Olympus. Ebony skin glowing under the LED strobes, her black latex dress molded to her body like a second skin. Her black hair was pulled atop her head sleekly. Her heels were wicked. Her earrings said bite me. Men watched her like she was a cathedral built for sin.
Odette let a smile tug at her lips, brushing strands of her red hair behind one ear as she approached. She knew how she looked tonight; dangerous in a quiet way. A pale rose with hidden thorns. She dropped the cigarette just before the threshold and crushed it beneath her heel.
Miriam turned, and her eyes lit up, she finally sighted someone interesting. "You look like trouble."
Odette gave her a once-over. "You look like sin."
Miriam laughed, low and sultry. "Was starting to think you'd bail."
"I promised you tequila and bad decisions," Odette replied. "I never break a promise."
Miriam smirked while nodding affirmingly.
Odette shrugged out of her trench coat slowly, revealing the dress beneath. Several heads turned to look, she let them. She needed this; the attention, the burn, the momentary illusion that she was still alive. She came here to forget, maybe get laid as well.
Miriam smiled like a wolf. "Let's start with shots."
And with that, they turned toward the bar, two beautiful disasters ready to ruin someone's night, or their own.