Aira flipped the OPEN sign to CLOSED and stood there for a moment, hand resting against the cool glass. Outside, the downpour hadn't stopped since morning. Water streamed down the window in silver ribbons, blurring the streetlights until the whole city looked like it was melting.
The scent of espresso lingered—bittersweet, warm, human. It clung to her hair, her skin, her clothes. Some nights, it was the only thing that reminded her she still existed.
"Lock up for me, Mellisah," she called, untying her apron. "I'm knocking off"
"Yeah, yeah," came the lazy reply. Mellisah didn't look up from her phone, bubblegum snapping between her teeth.
Aira didn't bother answering. She simply pushed the door open and stepped out into the storm.
The rain hit like pins against her skin. Her umbrella shuddered under the wind, a fragile shield against the night. Her wool coat: three winters past saving, was already soaked through, heavy on her shoulders. Puddles swallowed her boots, cold seeping through the soles until her toes went numb.
The city lights flickered in the wet streets, red and gold smeared across the asphalt like bruises. Somewhere, a bus hissed past. Somewhere else, a siren wailed. And beneath all of it, her phone buzzed.
[Reminder: Electricity Bill Due in 3 Days.]
She exhaled through her nose. "Yeah," she muttered, "add it to the list."
Her reflection appeared briefly in a shop window—pale, eyes sunken, hair plastered to her face. A ghost in motion. She forced herself to keep walking; Mrs. Wong's temper could set cities on fire, and she had no energy left to dodge flames tonight.
Her footsteps splashed rhythmically through the puddles until another pair joined them, too soft, too synchronized to belong to strangers.
She stopped. Looked back.
Only the rain looked back at her.
You're imagining things again, she told herself. It's just the rain.
Then came the voice.
"Heyyy Airaaa, wait up!"
Her heart sank. Of course.
The sound of rubber boots slapping pavement, an umbrella twirling under the rain, Plasterine, or whatever her name was. Always too loud for the weather, too bright for the world.
She bounced up beside Aira, beaming under a sunflower-yellow raincoat. "You won't believe what I did! That creepy text—'I'm always watching you'? That was me! Hah! Got you so good, right? I've been learning to spoof numbers for fun, and—well, you should've seen your face!"
Aira stopped walking. "That was you?"
"Yeah!" the stupid chatterbox giggled. "Don't be mad—it was just a joke! You should've seen—"
"Not funny." Aira's voice was flat, quiet, but sharp enough to cut through the storm.
The girl blinked, confused by the tone. "Oh, come on. It was harmless! You're always so gloomy. I thought maybe—"
"Maybe what?" Aira turned to her slowly, eyes shadowed beneath the umbrella. The rain slid off in cold sheets. "You thought scaring me would make me laugh?"
The silence that followed was thin and trembling.
"I didn't mean—"
"Then stop meaning," Aira interrupted. "Stop talking. Stop following. And for once, Prudence or whatever the fuck your name is—" she emphasized the name with quiet venom— "mind your own damn life."
Her mouth opened, but no words came out. Her umbrella tilted awkwardly as she stepped back, the colour draining from her face.
By the time she blinked again, Aira was already walking away—her figure shrinking beneath the rain until she was just another shadow among many. 'It's Pristine,' she whispered into the downpour, not like Aira could hear her or anything.
The streets grew narrower as Aira moved deeper into the city's veins. Neon lights pulsed through the mist, flickering signs reflecting in the puddles like wounded stars. The smell changed, too, coffee giving way to cigarettes, perfume, and wet concrete.
Then came the sign.
RED VELVET, its crimson letters flickering like a dying heartbeat.
She slipped through the alley, the bass from inside already vibrating through the walls. The back door was heavy, rusted, and always slightly ajar. She pushed it open, stepping into a world of muffled moans, laughter, and low, pulsing beats.
The air hit her like smoke and sweat—thick, intimate, wrong.
She kept her eyes down as she walked, hoping to make it to the dressing room unnoticed. But fate never did like her much.
She rounded a corner, and collided with a wall that moved. A wall that exhaled sharply and smelled of cheap whiskey and authority.
The woman towered over her, leather jacket creaking, lipstick the color of spilled blood. Her boss.
"Well, look who decided to join the living," the woman drawled, voice low and dangerous. "Thirty minutes late and you bump into me? You got a death wish, sweetheart?"
"I'm sorry," Aira murmured, eyes on the floor.
The slap came so fast it felt like thunder. The sound cracked through the hallway. Aira staggered, her cheek burning.
"Sorry doesn't have bills to pay," the woman hissed, grabbing her arm. Her nails dug in like claws as she dragged Aira down the hall into a small storage room. The door slammed shut behind them.
"You think I don't see you walking around like some dead-eyed saint?" Her words dripped with mockery. "You disgust me, Aira. Always so quiet, so… clean. You think you're better than the rest of us?"
Aira said nothing. Her fists trembled at her sides.
The boss smirked. "You need a reminder of what you are."
She yanked open the closet, pulled out something black and white—lace, ribbon, mockery in fabric form. An outfit, short enough to humiliate, not enough to cover. A French maid lingerie uniform, the kind worn by dancers during the club's "private shows."
"Put it on."
Aira froze. "Please—"
"Now."
The word cracked like a whip.
Her hands shook as she changed, the cold air biting her bare skin. The lace felt obscene, almost mocking the quiet dignity she tried so hard to keep. The boss circled her slowly, eyes glinting.
"Perfect," she purred. "Now you look like you belong."
A mop was thrust into her hands. "Room 9. Go earn your keep."
Aira hesitated. "B-but that room's—"
"I said, clean it."
The hallway beyond was alive with muffled sounds—music, laughter, the pulse of something too dark to name. Room 9's door glowed faintly under the red light. Her reflection rippled in the handle before she turned it.
The scent hit first—sweat, perfume, heat.
Inside, under crimson light, a man and woman moved against each other in brutal rhythm. Leather. Whips. Gasps. Laughter. The woman was strapped in leather, moaning as a man drove into her from behind, whip cracking against her back in rhythmic cruelty. The room pulsed with red light, the air thick with heat and breath and noise.The kind of scene that left nothing sacred.
Aira froze in the doorway, her body refusing to move, her soul screaming to run. But she didn't. She couldn't.
She lowered her gaze and began to clean.
Each stroke of the mop was mechanical, a small rebellion of composure in the middle of chaos. She focused on the floor, the corners, the rhythm of her breath. Don't listen. Don't look. Don't exist.
The room's noise blurred into static. Her hands trembled, but she kept going until the floor gleamed beneath the red glow.
When she was done, she turned quietly toward the door.
The laughter behind her swelled again—low, feverish, endless.
Aira stepped into the hallway, closing the door gently behind her. For a moment, she just stood there—breathing, shaking, her reflection trembling in a cracked mirror opposite.
A stranger stared back at her.
A woman hollowed out by debt, by hunger, by the quiet cruelty of surviving.
But she lifted the mop again.
One room down.
Too many left to go.
And if she moved fast enough—if she kept her head down—maybe she'd make it home before2am.