Chapter 2
KELSEA
The heat of the flames is nothing compared to the way their eyes burn into me.
I’ve danced this set a hundred times, maybe more.
But tonight, my timing’s a little off. Not enough for them to notice, but I feel it.
The second loop of the fire ribbons falters in my grip, one beat too slow.
Doesn’t matter. They still roar when I crack them into the floor, sparks flying into the smoky air.
Sweat pours down my chest in sheets. My skin’s sticky, my calves ache, and my mouth’s dry, but I hold the pose until the lights kill.
Applause slams into my ears. My eyes sting from the overheads.
I bow just low enough to satisfy the crowd, then turn and vanish into the dark, every inch of my body screaming to escape.
The backstage hallway is narrow, lined with rust-stained metal and faded velvet curtains.
The second I’m off-stage, the sound dims, replaced by the low thump of club bass and the hiss of somebody lighting a stim.
Ceera’s waiting. She's perched on a crate, boots propped on the wall, half a stim glowing between her fingers. “You almost ate it during the second flare.”
I yank my towel off its hook and wipe my face. “Didn’t.”
“Barely.” She flicks ash into a can. “Crowd loved it though. Got a few real monsters out there tonight. The tall one near the left rail looked like he wanted to climb the stage.”
“Then it’s a good thing we don’t allow audience participation.”
She chuckles and hops down. “You good?”
I nod, not meeting her eyes. She sees too much.
I slip into the dressing room, shut the door with a click, and exhale like I’ve been holding my breath the whole performance.
The little room smells like hairspray, powder, and synth perfume.
A cracked mirror hangs above a warped sink.
There’s glitter on everything. And on the bench—my clothes, folded the way I always leave them, just in case I have to run.
I strip fast, tugging off the dance gear, peeling the mesh top from sticky skin, flinging the fireproof skirt aside.
The hoodie is soft and black and just big enough to hide me.
Cargo pants next. Boots on, laces tucked.
Hair scraped back into a low knot. Face scrubbed raw in the sink until all the makeup’s gone and the skin underneath stings. That’s better. That’s me.
The door creaks behind me. Ceera’s voice. “Watch out. One of the off-duty dockhands is circling again. Wants a ‘private show.’”
I grunt and shoulder my bag. “Tell him I charge triple for creeps.”
“That’ll just turn him on more.”
“Then tell him I bite.”
Ceera laughs. “You’d be a lot more terrifying if you weren’t five-three.”
“Tell that to the guy who tried to grab me last month.”
She raises both hands. “Fair.”
I push open the side exit door, the rusty hinges groaning loud enough to make my jaw clench. The corridor smells like fry oil and mildew, dimly lit by a flickering strip overhead. I keep my eyes low and my pace steady.
And there he is.
Just standing there, in the open mouth of the corridor, maybe ten feet ahead. He’s not doing anything. Not blocking the way. Not even pretending to look at something else. He’s just… standing. Still. Watching.
Big. Massive, really. Built like a load-hauler. Green scales catch the flickering light, and red eyes pin me in place for a second too long.
My stomach tightens. My breath shortens. I keep walking.
I don’t break stride, don’t look directly at him, but I catch the details in the edges of my vision. Heavy shoulders, thick neck, scar running up one temple. He’s not smiling. He’s not leering. He’s just watching. Studying. Like he knows what he’s looking at.
My skin prickles. Not because I think he’s going to grab me, not exactly. But because that kind of stillness doesn’t come from a casual onlooker. That’s training. That’s control.
I pass him. A full second ticks by. Two. He doesn’t turn to follow. Doesn’t speak.
Still, my pulse doesn’t calm until I hit the casino’s outer hallway and take the first exit up into the night air.
Only then do I suck in a real breath, one hand pressed to my ribs. I tell myself it was nothing. Just another customer. Just another loner watching the show. Nothing I haven’t seen a hundred times.
But something about him itches at the edge of my thoughts.
Something tells me… that wasn’t the last time I’ll see those red eyes.
The walk home’s not long, but I stretch it out like I’ve got somewhere to be. Back streets, shadowed alleys, places the overhead cameras don’t sweep too clean. My boots scuff low against the pavement, and every few steps, I glance back.
There’s no one there.
Still, the feeling crawls up my spine like wet wire. That prickling between the shoulder blades. The kind that only fades when I lock the door behind me.
I duck past the closed food stalls, noses still greasy from the day’s fry grease. A neon sign blinks dead blue against the metal siding. Everything's too bright, too loud, too wired. I slip between a vending station and an old water recycler, then take the stairs two at a time up to my flat.
Door shuts with a soft click. Locks go home with the practiced speed of habit—three bolts, one bar, no hesitation.
It’s quiet inside. Still smells like garlic noodles and cheap soap. I kick off my boots and drop my bag beside the door, flick the lights on with the back of my hand. The panel stutters once, then glows dull amber. Good enough.
The noodles are still on the counter from last night. Cold. Clumped. I don’t bother reheating them. Just grab the bowl, a pair of chopsticks, and collapse onto the threadbare sofa. The springs wheeze under my weight.
I flip on the wall screen with a knuckle and scroll the feed with one hand while shoving noodles in my mouth with the other.
Coalition talking heads scream about tariffs.
Some smug prick with a pinched face insists the Alliance is baiting border skirmishes.
Another segment shows a leaked drone clip of some riot offworld.
Too much noise. None of it close enough to matter.
I thumb the volume down until their mouths move without sound.
The noodles taste like paste. I chew anyway.
Then the yelling starts.
I freeze, mid-bite. Voices echo up from the alley behind my building—sharp, angry. One male. One deeper. Authority voice. Coalition security or hired casino muscle. Someone’s in trouble.
I set the bowl down and creep to the window, peeling back the edge of the curtain with two fingers.
There, down in the alley, lit by the flickering lamp over the waste chute—him.
Green-scaled. Tall. Massive. The Grolgath from the corridor. He’s squared up to one of the security officers, talking low but firm. The other guy’s waving his hands, pissed about something. I can’t hear the words, but the posture’s clear. Not friends. Not casual.
I press my fingers to the wall beside the window, grounding myself. My heart’s thumping again. Fast.
The Grolgath doesn’t shove the guy. Doesn’t flinch. Just stands his ground, arms loose at his sides, like he’s waiting for the other man to make a mistake.
Then something shifts. The security guy backs down. Not by much, but enough. He points down the alley and mutters something, then peels off toward the street.
The green-scaled male stays behind.
For a moment, he doesn’t move. Just stares at the ground like he’s thinking. Then—he lifts his head.
Right at me.
I snap back from the window, heart slamming into my ribs. I don’t know if he saw me. Maybe the curtain moved. Maybe he caught the reflection. Doesn’t matter.
I drop to the floor and crawl back to the couch, chest heaving. Sit there. Still. Listen to the hum of my own breathing.
He was watching the building.
I don’t like coincidences. Never have. And I especially don’t like men who show up twice in one night with that kind of stare.
I go to the sink, splash cold water on my face, then lean both hands on the counter, palms flat. Stare at myself in the streaked mirror. I don’t look scared. I look tired. Too many nights like this. Too many almosts.
I dry off, head back to the couch, and kill the newsfeed. The screen goes black.
My fingers drum against my thigh. Fast. Unsettled.
I don’t sleep yet.
I wait until the shadows outside my window shift again.