The club was still quiet in the late afternoon, cleaners wiping mirrors, bartenders restocking bottles, the faint smell of last night's smoke and perfume lingering like a ghost. Blane sat in the small office behind the bar, a stack of applications lay on the desk: headshots, measurements, short bios. Routine. Boring.
He flipped through them mechanically.
Until one photo stopped his hand.
A woman named Mira has a long blue hair that falls past her shoulders. Her skin is tan and clear. She has full lips and big, dark eyes that stand out on her face. Her features are soft and well-proportioned, giving her a naturally pretty look. She often wears a shy half-smile. She is 20 years old.
Blane stared longer than he meant to.
Something about her, maybe the contrast of cool blue against sun-kissed skin, maybe the way her eyes seemed to look straight through the camera without meeting it, made the air in the room feel heavier.
He pressed the intercom.
"Send in the applicants waiting. Now."
Minutes later, five women filed in. Mira was last.
She stepped through the door hesitantly, hands clasped in front of her black skirt, shoulders slightly hunched like she was trying to take up less space. Up close she was even more striking: freckles dusting her nose, long lashes, a faint flush already creeping up her neck when she realized he was watching her.
Blane leaned back in his chair, crimson eyes locked on her.
The other four stood straighter, posing subtlyx shoulders back, hips cocked, practiced smiles. Mira just stood. Beautiful in a way that felt accidental.
He addressed the room, voice low and calm.
"You're all hired. Except you." He nodded toward the tall blonde in front. "Your references are fake. Leave."
The blonde's smile cracked. She opened her mouth, then closed it when his eyes flared once, she turned and walked out fast.
Blane's gaze returned to Mira.
"You," he said. "Step forward."
She did, small steps, cheeks darkening. The other women exchanged glances.
Blane stood. Towered over her without moving closer.
"Why do you want to work here?" he asked.
Mira swallowed. "I… need the money. My brother's in school. I'm good at dancing. I practiced a lot."
He studied her face. The blush spread to her ears. She didn't look away, but her fingers twisted together nervously.
"You're twenty," he said. Not a question.
"Yes."
"You've never worked a place like this before."
"No." She bit her lip. "But I can learn. Fast."
Blane circled her slowly, once. Not touching. Just looking. The other applicants watched, tension thickening the air. One of them shifted uncomfortably.
He stopped in front of her again.
"You're hired," he said. "Immediately. Full rate. Private room privileges if you want them. Start tonight."
Mira's eyes widened. "R-really? Just like that?"
"Just like that."
The other women bristled, but he felt it. Jealousy flickered in their eyes like sparks. One muttered something under her breath. Another crossed her arms tighter.
Blane ignored them. His attention stayed on Mira.
"You'll dance main stage first set," he continued. "Wear whatever you want. But when you're done come find me. Upstairs. I want to see what you can do without an audience."
She nodded quickly, eyes dropping to the floor.
"Yes… sir."
Blane turned to the rest. "You're all on rotation tonight. Dismissed."
They filed out, some shooting Mira looks that were equal parts envy and curiosity. The door clicked shut.
Alone now, Blane stepped closer to her.
She didn't move back.
He reached out and and tipped her chin up with one finger. Cold skin against warm. Her breath hitched.
"You're nervous," he murmured.
"A little," she admitted, voice barely audible.
"Good." His thumb brushed the edge of her jaw, once. "Nerves make the performance honest."
Mira's eyes met his. Wide. Uncertain. But not afraid.
Not yet.
Blane released her chin. Stepped back.
"Seven o'clock. Don't be late."
She nodded again then slipped out the door like she was escaping a dream she wasn't sure she wanted to wake from.
Blane watched the empty doorway for a long moment.
The air still carried the faint trace of her coconut shampoo, nervous sweat, something sweet underneath.
He smirked.
Pandora's Spark had just gained another flame.
And this one this one might burn differently.