The shift drags on in the graveyard glow of the Chrome Daisy and I feel like I'm already a ghost. The neon bulbs sputter overhead, buzzing into the silent emptiness.
There are barely enough drunk halfwits to fill half the bar, and my usual audience is a memory. I'm here, a splash of cheap neon paint on these chipped walls. The mop's scent and stale beer coat the back stairs. I knock on the manager's office door, but it stays shut. No answers.
My fingers hesitate on the padlock of my locker. It's been moved again. I open it... empty. No playlist, no pole. Someone else is swinging on it tonight.
I haul myself onto the stage for the first set. The crowd coughs and cringes, nothing but glassy eyes and empty heads staring back. They watch me as if I'm some sad hologram drifting through the haze of neon smoke. I swing down from the pole in my silky mini skirt, muscles coiling into the first moves.
My chest heaves with each spin, sweat beading at my brow. It's not enough to set anyone on fire. One jerk in front reaches to grope my hip mid-spin—bad idea. I catch his hand and meet his eyes with a glare.
Someone waves a crumpled twenty-dollar bill in front of my face, probably to coax a grin. Frankly, I could drop dead and none of them would care. I manage a smirk as I slap a gloved hand on a drunk's shoulder.
"I'm a bundle of joy, thanks for asking," I deadpan.
He's got bloodshot eyes and a mouth that oozes a blood-red grin after gulping cheap whiskey. His tongue lolls, like he might die of thirst.
The guy bellows, "You got some for me, baby?" I shake my head and slide away from his pathetic grasp, glitter falling from my shoulders like dying embers.
Backstage, the other girls slump onto cheap barstools, trying not to sigh too loudly. I catch Mira's eye as she juggles drink orders behind the bar, but today she's more focused on a blinking holo-screen than on me. I sidle up between two empty tip jars.
"Everything okay, Mira?" I croak.
She glances up and forces a smile. "Yeah, yeah. Just busy as hell tonight, Ly."
Busy as hell with what? Her finger taps across the screen like it's rehearsed data entry.
"Later, okay? I gotta handle something," she adds, already fading behind a wall of body odor and synth-beats.
I squint at her retreating form. Are we both pretending nothing's burning around us? Mira offers an uneasy wave, but her eyes bounce off mine like static. One more friend stepping back. Great. The scent of spilled liquor grows thicker, and I pause to suck in a lungful—drowning my own worry in bleach-and-bubblegum fumes.
My heart hammers against sequins and satin. I can't call Mace—not here, with everyone watching. Mace, the bartender who used to flirt and tease when he slid a shot my way, now looks through me like I'm already part of the scenery.
"'Ey," I say, sidling up to the bar during a lull. "Mace, did you catch that move?" I flash what I hope is a stupid grin, eager for some reaction besides his dead eyes. He just tips a fresh mug in front of me. "Patron's got a thing for blondes," he mumbles, refilling my beer with one hand while the other freezes mid-pour. That's it. No double-sure smile, nothing. Just the clink of glass on metal.
I drop a coin onto the counter anyway. "Thanks," I murmur. He nods the slightest fraction and turns away to polish glasses. Always one step behind. Even the spatula of bottled mixers is sharper than this conversation. My reflection shimmers in the amber beer in my glass, a ghost of a girl who used to feel safe here. Now the whole bar is a poorly mixed drink, easy to spill or step over. I'm losing my grip on all of them, bit by bit.
At the end of the shift, I head to the back office. The neon sign outside the window glares "BAR CLOSED" but I'm only here for the real message. My holo-tab is tucked into my jacket pocket, a sweet little upgrade I swiped some time ago. I flip through the tip payout logs under the desk's dim light, but something feels wrong.
The totals don't match what I remember. Row by row, I see each night's hits and tips... every morning there's a couple hundred credits missing.
I smack the table in frustration. "What the hell?" I murmur, digging deeper into the data. It's all there in black-and-white text, but my mind can't parse the absence. There should be another few hundred credits in my account by now.
"Fucking thieves," I spit, fingers flying over the holo-keyboard. I trace the transactions, hoping to see where the extra credits landed. The code scrolls up and down, then stops at an abrupt blank. The trail vanishes. It's like trying to grasp water with bare hands—every time I think I have it, it slips away.
I've been scraping by on cigarette butts and free drinks, but this... this is the knife hitting my paycheck. I reroute again. Dig, push deeper. The data might as well be static on the screen. Each path ends in thin air. The black card in my bedside drawer pulses like a warning. How much easier would it be to flash that and fix everything? But I remember being warned—easy answers rarely come free. Besides, I have no idea who's behind this. Club management skimming my tips? Some ghost in the net?
I wipe sweat from my brow. It could be so easy to quit now, walk away and come back tomorrow and nothing would change. But my credits are running out. I need to fix this. One of my heels presses against a loose floorboard under the desk. I lean down, ear close to the wood, half-hoping for some secret to tap out.
And then I feel it. A faint pulse in the pocket of my jeans, where I stash it—a black card I pulled out once and stashed like a dark secret. It hums softly, in sync with my rising anxiety. I almost expected it, as if it only comes alive when the shit hits the fan. But I leave the card untouched. Not tonight. Not like this.
I stand up abruptly. The room tilts, and I steady myself on the desk edge. The flutter in my chest crescendos into thunder. Quiet panic takes hold. I close the holo-tab and slip it back into my pocket, the numbers locked behind encrypted barriers I barely hope to crack. For now, that's as far as I can push. No more digging tonight—I need out of this place, out of eyeshadow, out of glitter.
My apartment is dark except for the pale glow of the holo-screen on my lap. I can't tear myself away. The numbers scroll endlessly in columns, flirting with some pattern I can't quite catch. It's cold and quiet, except for the hum of the holo-processor.
I slump in the corner of the mattress, knees to chest, mind replaying the holes in the log. The music on the tablet is off. Outside my window, distant sirens and flickering neon bleed through the blinds.
The scent of stale beer and the club's cheap perfume cling to me, a second skin I can't wash off. My palms ache from tension. I clench the device like I could squeeze answers out of the neon text. Every time I scroll up, a new missing amount blinks by. Every time I scroll down, it vanishes again. But I can't stop. If I stare long enough, maybe—just maybe—I can find where my money went, who took it, and why.
Sheer exhaustion weighs down my eyelids, but sleep doesn't tempt me anymore. Not when there are digits left to question, trails left to chase. I shake my head and lean back against the wall. The screen's light casts my eyes into hollows, turning the girl I was into someone unfamiliar.
"I'll figure this out," I whisper to my reflection in the holo-light. The edge in my voice sounds steadier than I feel. But I know it's a lie whispered in the dark. I'm not sure of anything tonight.
Alone, I keep refreshing, chasing numbers that always elude me, as silence thickens around me like fog. My throat goes dry, and I give a hoarse laugh at how alone I truly am. Nothing has changed except that I feel smaller, more exposed. Just me and these flickering lights.
Tomorrow will bring another shuffle of secrets. But tonight, I stay here, teeth grinding, eyes stinging, heart thumping in time with the holo's silent glow.
Each number taunts me: figure this out, Lyra, before they figure you out. I close my eyes, taking a deep breath of the cold air, feeling it slip through the cracks of my control. My chest tightens with something between fear and determination.