I walk down the gloomy alley, the kind that never feels welcoming no matter how many times I walk through.
Shadows cling to it's corners, making my skin crawl. The moon is beautiful, can't say the same about this neighborhood.
I reach my apartment building. I fumble with the keys,cursing under my breath. My apartment is a cramped,dim cox,hardly more than a closet.
I order my dinner, letting the moon light slip across the room as I strip off the day in steaming shower,scrubbing away the grime and stink.
No sooner have I dried off than there's a knock at the door.The food's here. I pay the delivery guy,set the bag on the table, and notice a flyer pressed beneath the box.
"Waitress needed, nights only, no experience. The velvet room." I'm behind on my rent and my landlord isn't exactly an understand guy. I need a better job, badly, if I want to avoid getting evicted.
I take note of the address on the back. I throw on a coat, shoes, and a bit of eye-shadow to look a little sultry, grab my purse and make the long trek there.
I have to walk the entire way, so its nearly eight pm when I make it.The neon sign outside buzz faintly, painting the cracked sidewalk in streaks of red and purple.
I press the flyer between my fingers, trying to steady my pulse. Waitress Wanted. Nights Only. Experience Not Required.
A simple promise, but it feels like a doorway out of my exhausted life.
Inside, the club throbs with music — low, heavy bass vibrating through the floor.
I skirt past tables of laughing, glamorous patrons, the scent of perfume and alcohol clinging to the air. The main floor is dazzling, chaotic, and i feel a sudden, sharp sense of being utterly out of place.
A narrow staircase at the back leads to the office. My stomach twists as i climb it, each step echoing in the dimly lit corridor.
The door is heavy, black, with a small brass nameplate: Management. I knock lightly.
"Come in," a voice calls, smooth, low, confident.
I open the door. The room is surprisingly minimal — dark wood, leather chairs, and floor-to-ceiling windows overlooking the neon-lit streets below.
Behind a large mahogany desk seat's a man who seems impossibly calm, his eyes piercing yet unreadable.
He doesn't rise.
He simply leans back, studying me with an intensity that makes me shift on my feet.
"You're here about the flyer," he says. His voice is quiet but commands attention.
"Yes," i say, trying to sound steadier than i feel. "I… I'm interested in the waitress position."
He tilts his head, a small, almost imperceptible smile curling at the corner of his lips.
"You don't strike me as someone who waits tables for long. Why this job?"
I hesitate.
Because I'm broke. Because I need out. Because I'm tired of barely surviving. But i don't say any of that. Instead, I shrug. "Needed work. Nights only."
He studies another long beat. Then, suddenly, the intensity softens slightly. "Fair enough. Come back tomorrow at eight. Bring yourself, nothing else. If you can handle the night, you'll fit in.
my chest tightens . "Thank you," I whisper, unsure whether it is gratitude or fear that made my voice shake.
As i turned to leave, our eyes met for a second longer than necessary. Something unspoken passed between us— a spark of recognition, danger, and fascination all rolled into one.
The door clicked behind ms. Outside, the music and neon continued to pulse, but inside me, a storm