I stand in the bathroom of my tiny apartment and stare at the black card in my palm. It pulses faintly, warm against my skin. I never called about the Stairways to Heaven audition. Didn't show up either. My café latte sits cold on the counter, untouched. I was supposed to go today, but I froze. The card hummed like a heartbeat when I thought about stepping out that door. So I left it here, on the nightstand like an ugly trophy reminding me of the choice I didn't make.
The day after I bailed, everything feels off. My shift at Chrome Daisy has been quietly shuffled to the graveyard hours. It's the club's dead zone: stray smokers huddled under flickering neon, all rage and emptiness. I clock in at midnight, eyes burning, and they hand me a new locker key with a shrug. No explanation. Behind the peeling paint, I find a locker already inhabited by somebody else's perfume and mistakes. They moved my stuff without asking. My costume, my black boots—gone. Everything I own smells like someone else's sweat now. No wonder Velvet's starting to fray at the edges.
I take the stage as usual, but the routine's different. No one cues my favorite electro-jazz track, no special spotlight on my best pole. Instead I'm shuffled onto the corner circle, under a single strobelight, doing my best to pretend Velvet is still alive. The club smells like burned plastic and stale tequila. Floor mirrors are cracked; the bass thumps through the worn carpet. A couple of tired drunks watch me from the bar like I'm an ant on a microscope slide. "Feels like I'm working overtime in hell," I mumble under my breath, sarcasm the only way to smile at this.
Mace, the bartender, still slides me free drinks. He used to chat, lean in conspiratorially when he refilled my glass. Tonight he's all quiet eyes and strained smiles, like he's keeping a secret or just tired of mine. I catch him looking at me once, then he looks away fast, lipstick and regret smeared on his lips. He says nothing, just slides a whiskey to the edge of the bar. I sip it slowly. It burns, but not as much as seeing Mace shrink back when Velvet falters. He used to call me "doll" and ask if I'm okay. Now he just nods and moves on, not wanting to drown in whatever's going down with me.
With each dance I feel Velvet splintering. My stage persona was armor—sleek black leather heels and a forgiving smile that hid the bruises. But tonight even she's itching to break free. Leg cramps blur my hips, throat dry, and every touch from a customer feels like sandpaper on my skin. I catch my reflection in a broken mirror: mascara tears, hair twisted wrong, the idol of Chrome Daisy looking like a cheap Halloween decoration. I gather my guts and grit through the set, feeling more like a ghost at a wake than a queen on stage.
When the shift finally ends, I'm a grungy, hollow version of myself. My throat tastes like cigarettes and lies. No one bothered to move me back to my locker; I grab my things out of habit from wherever they dumped them. Outside the club, the cool night air doesn't cool me down. Heart still thumping, I slip back into my apartment, each step quiet, ghostlike. The last thing I want is any more people or noise. Velvet is off-duty now.
I flop onto my saggy futon and power up my modded holo-tab. Dim light flickers across the ceiling fan as I scan Chrome Daisy's internal logs. I'm looking for... I don't know what. Evidence I deserved better? A clue in binary? My fingers tremble over the keys as I dig through login records and scheduling algorithms. Usually I'd stop at something silly, like an inventory glitch. Tonight I'm actually scared of what I might find.
Between social media notifications and coded lines, I spot it: a strange tag attached to my profile. The words "PENDING HOLD – EXTERNAL REVIEW." It glows on the screen like a goddamn sentence etched on a gravestone. My name, Lyra, underlined in red bureaucratic paint. My throat hits my heart. I never asked for anything like that. And I definitely didn't put it there. The blue-green holo-light makes my eyes look bigger than usual; it reminds me of being called in for a meeting I never asked for and don't want.
I pinch my lips tight, fingers hovering over the holographic keyboard. I swipe, try to delete the tag. What the hell? this is my life, my data — who the fuck is external to Chrome Daisy reviewing me? Sweat beads on my collarbone. I press hard, desperately. DELETED? UNSAVED? CONFIRM? I tap over and over, logic drowning in hope. The holo-text flickers. Maybe it's gone. Maybe not.
I lean back on the futon, wide awake in the midnight gloom of my apartment. The buzzing fan tries to cool the heat rising in my chest. On the nightstand the black card lies there, pulsing. I reach out, put my palm flat on its smooth surface. Warm. Alive? Or just broken tech? I stare at the ceiling, tracing cracks in the plaster with my eyes, music of loneliness on repeat in my head.
Outside, distant sirens wail through the rain-damp streets. Inside, I taste everything bitter — burnt coffee that turned into gloom, neon lights gone dim, a future fading with every heartbeat. The card pulses once more, as if to whisper stay. I pretend not to hear.
And here I lay, half-human, half-legend of a stripper who skipped out on opportunity like it was a bad date. No resolutions. Just shadows and the sound of blood returning to my ears. My city is alive and indifferent, spinning without me as I struggle to remember who I am. Black card glowing faintly on the nightstand, I lie in bed and wait for the fear to pass but it doesn't. Not tonight. Not ever again.