Burn the Stars For You

Chapter 1

ROJA

The hiss of the torch is the only voice I trust.

Blue flame arcs across the panel, spitting sparks as I guide the bead along the seam. The metal hums beneath my gloves, vibrating through the weld bench and up into my arms. I lean in, shielding my eyes behind the visor, one breath at a time, slow and steady.

Outside, rain drums against the shipyard dome. Soft now, almost a whisper. In ten minutes, it’ll roar like gunfire.

I finish the last pass, kill the torch, and let the silence settle. The others are already clocking out—some dragging their boots, some talking too loud. Too many bodies. Too much heat. I strip the gloves and let them hang on the rack. My shift’s done. Should’ve headed home an hour ago.

But Kaslo still owes me.

The bastard's good for credits, just slow. Two weeks back, he bet against me in a mech duel pool—ran his mouth, laughed when I won, and didn’t pay. Now he’s late again. And I’m tired of asking.

He’s at the Coil tonight. Figures. The Crimson Coil pulls every drunk, degenerate, and off-duty scab from the docks and half the underlevels. I hate it. Music’s too loud, lights too sharp. Whole place stinks like desperation in a perfume bottle.

But I want my money.

I cut across Dockline South, steam hissing up through the grates, rain slicking the cobblestones. My coat’s already soaked by the time I get to the neon sign. ‘CRIMSON COIL’ buzzes overhead, half the letters flickering. I nod at the bouncer—he recognizes me but doesn’t say shit. Smart.

Inside, heat hits me like a punch. Smell too—sweat, synth-smoke, alcohol, something sweet and wrong like fruit turned sour. I roll my shoulders and make a pass through the main bar, eyes scanning. No sign of Kaslo near the front.

The stage lights pulse to some thudding rhythm—bass deep enough to crack ribs. I push through the crowd, ignoring elbows, drinks, giggles. Someone brushes my arm, then backs off quick. Good.

I catch sight of Kaslo near the raised pit. He’s slouched, drink in hand, mouth open like a slack-jawed idiot. Laughing at something. Or someone.

I move left, trying to close the distance.

Then the lights change.

Not brighter—sharper. Red and gold. Flame.

I don’t mean to look. But I do.

She steps onto the stage like she’s carved from light and smoke.

Flame kisses her skin and clings to her hips, twisting around her legs like it was born there.

Her outfit—if you can call it that—is little more than glinting strips of shimmer mesh, revealing curves that don’t move, they roll—like liquid heat, like temptation shaped by hand.

And her face.

Calm. Not painted in fake joy or baited lust. It’s still. Centered. Powerful in a way I don’t have words for. Like she’s not performing—she’s commanding. A goddess standing in the center of her flame-prayer.

She spins, and the fire lifts with her like it’s begging to touch more of her.

Every movement sends the light chasing across her skin.

The soft dip of her waist. The long muscle of her thigh.

The hard line of her shoulders. It should look choreographed, but it doesn’t.

It looks born. Like she doesn’t follow the fire—it follows her.

And I can’t move.

My breath comes short, sudden. My fingers twitch at my sides. There’s a sound in my chest I haven’t heard in years. A cracking. A pull.

I don’t just want her. I need to know her. I need to know what broke her to make her this strong.

Something in me stirs. Wakes up. Like I’ve been walking through fog since I left the kill list behind. Like this woman—this dancer cloaked in heat and defiance—is the first real thing I’ve seen in a long, long time.

She flips the fire into a wheel and ducks beneath it, arching her back, chest rising, sweat trailing the curve of her stomach. Every part of her screams danger, and I want it anyway. Not for a night. Not to conquer. To claim.

Her eyes skim the crowd but never stop on any one face. She’s measuring. Calculating. She’s not here to be seen—she’s here to survive.

And gods help me, I want to be the one she doesn’t have to run from.

I forget Kaslo. Forget the credits. Forget why I came. I just watch her move, pulse ticking like a metronome under my skin, and think:

If she asked, I’d burn the whole planet down.

The lights go cold. The crowd whistles and hoots like a pack of wild dogs, half-drunk and dreaming. The stage clears, smoke curling like afterthoughts. She’s gone.

I don’t look for Kaslo.

Not anymore.

I move along the edge of the room, eyes on the floor, the walls, the exits. Habit. Muscle memory from a life I don’t talk about. I count cameras, note blind spots. Map the place in my head like I’ll need to burn it down later.

The entrance to the employee hallway is tucked behind a busted refrigeration unit, half-concealed by a curtain that smells like spoiled meat and vodka.

No sign. No guard. Just a narrow mouth of dark space where performers vanish after the show.

I lean nearby, arms crossed. Not threatening.

Not close enough to spook anyone. Just there.

Time ticks.

People pass—staff, dancers, bouncers. She’s not one of them. The others laugh, shove, toss each other inside jokes like it’s just another Thursday grind. But she doesn’t come back out.

I feel like an idiot.

I shift my stance, glance at the busted neon, listen to the bass thumping through the floor. A bottle rolls by, kicked from under some drunk’s heel. Someone yells near the bar. Nobody’s watching me, but I still feel exposed. Too still. Too focused.

What the hell am I doing here?

I don’t know her name. Don’t know where she lives. Don’t even know if she’s real or some fever trick from the gas leaks in this place.

But I saw her dance.

And now something in me is restless.

Not hunger. Not lust. Not just that. Deeper. Older. A kind of quiet compulsion. Like my body recognizes something my mind hasn’t caught up with yet.

I stay twenty minutes. Maybe more. Just watching that hallway like she’ll step out again, like I’ll know what to say if she does. But she doesn’t.

I push off the wall, give the place one last glance, and head for the side door.

The alley is wet, slick with trashwater and broken dreams. Rain hisses on the metal lids of the bins, and steam curls from a floor vent down the way. A pair of security guys argue about some drunk causing trouble out front. I ignore them. Turn left, toward the upper district.

The wind hits my coat like a slap. I breathe it in.

Clean air. Heavy with city grease and ozone. It scrapes the scent of fire and skin from my throat, but not from memory.

I don’t know why I care. But I do.

I don’t follow. I don’t knock. I don’t pretend this means anything.

But I’ll be back.