Chapter 3
KELSEA
Ceera corners me in the break room before I can even grab a clean towel. Her eyes are already glassy from whatever she’s been huffing, and the stim hanging from her bottom lip burns low, the end flaring with every hissy inhale.
“You hear about the sweep?” she asks, voice low but conspiratorial.
Her tone’s always like that, like she knows something you don’t and she’s just dying to let it slip.
She smells like skin oil and rose sweat, with a tang of citrus cleanser from the stage disinfectant.
“Out by the starport. Word is two units, real tight net.”
My shoulders lock up before I can stop them.
“I’m fine,” I say, sharp. Too fast.
She raises an eyebrow, all smug and curious, but she doesn’t push.
Just shrugs one bare shoulder and leans her hip against the table, stim smoke curling up toward the vent.
She’s still in her costume—straps of violet leather clinging to every gleaming inch of her.
Always proud to show skin. Me, I can’t get mine covered fast enough.
I cross to the drink dispenser and pour water with hands that don’t want to behave. The spout gurgles and splashes, my fingers twitching hard enough to slosh half of it onto the counter. I grab a rag, curse under my breath, and mop it up before she sees.
She doesn’t say anything, but I know she’s watching.
“Security does sweeps every week,” I mutter, forcing casual. “It’s nothing.”
She lets out a lazy exhale of smoke. “Sure, baby. If you say so.”
She saunters out after that, swinging her hips like the room’s still her stage. I let her go. When the door swings shut behind her, I sag against the sink and press my forehead to the metal cabinet. It’s cool. Solid. Real. I close my eyes.
Not again. I can’t run again. Not yet.
I’ve only just started to breathe here. The Crimson Coil is a shithole, but it’s consistent. Predictable. The walls don’t ask questions. The bosses want me quiet and hot and on time. I can do that. I can disappear in plain sight. It’s all I’ve ever done.
But now…
Now he’s here.
That Grolgath male. The green one with eyes like burning rubies. Three times in two nights. First the side hall. Then down in the alley, talking to the guards. Last night, I spotted him in the back of the club, half-shadowed, unmoving while everyone else pushed and howled.
He doesn’t leer. Doesn’t throw creds. Doesn’t talk.
But I feel him.
His eyes cut through the crowd like knives. When I dance, it’s like he sees everything under the flame, right to the bone. Fire’s supposed to be mine—my shield, my mask, my weapon. But when he looks at me, it’s like it turns inside out. Like I’m the one burning.
I tell myself not to look. To ignore it. But tonight, I crack.
After the last spin, the final slow flare of flame, I step off the stage and slip behind the curtain fast. My breath’s still ragged from the routine, my skin slick with sweat. My chest is tight—not from exertion. From expectation.
I duck past the tech booth, down the staff corridor, and peek through the narrow viewing slat that leads to the main lounge.
He’s not there.
My stomach flips. My pulse thuds, heavy and low. I scan again. Nothing. No green scales. No red eyes. No motionless figure watching me like I’m some kind of lost thing that only he sees whole.
I turn away from the slot, drag my fingers through my damp hair, and blow out a breath. Relief or disappointment, I can’t tell. Maybe both.
It’s better this way.
No eyes. No interest. No attention.
Just the fire. Just the stage. Just me.
After, I sit in the dressing room for a while, my sweat a cool sheen on my mostly bare skin. Normally I can’t wait to get out of my gear. Red Eyes really threw me off my game.
I take the long route home.
Every instinct screams to keep moving, to vanish into the flow of the city like so many times before. But I know how to avoid notice. I’ve done it too long not to. The trick is to look like you belong. Even when your stomach’s clenched and your boots are too loud in the wet alley.
The sky’s still crying in drizzles, soft sheets of silver mist under the flicker of neon signs and the low moan of vent fans. I duck under awnings, stick to the shadows. I count windows, cross at dark corners, pass broken kiosks oozing static from their busted vid-feeds.
Behind me, something moves.
Not loud. But deliberate. Measured. I can feel it.
I don’t bolt. That’s a rookie mistake. Instead, I slide into the alley beside the old strip market where the dumpsters squat like rusted beasts, reeking of brine and burnt synth-meat. I wait, half-hidden behind one.
When I hear the scrape of footsteps near the bend, I step out fast, chin up, palms loose at my sides—but ready.
He’s there.
My breath stutters. Not from fear. Not exactly.
The green-scaled Grolgath. Taller than any human I’ve ever met, broad-shouldered and terrifying in that way only predators can be—silent, still, and completely focused.
The alley light behind me glints off the curve of his chest, highlighting muscle beneath his coat. His red eyes glow—not harshly, not menacingly. They smolder. Like embers banked beneath wet wood. Controlled. Watching.
I swallow and lift my chin higher. “Are you following me?”
No answer. His expression doesn’t change, but something shifts in his stance. Not forward, not back—just… grounded. Present.
I press on. My voice wavers, but I don’t let it break. “You’ve been at the Coil. I saw you. You—what do you want from me?”
Still nothing. Just those eyes locked on mine.
He reaches slowly into his coat pocket. My pulse spikes, feet ready to run—but he doesn’t draw a weapon. Instead, he extends his clawed hand, palm open.
My bracelet lies there. Fragile chain, crescent charm, old and half-broken from years of wear. A piece of me. A piece of a different life.
I stare.
He doesn’t speak. Doesn’t gesture. Just holds it, steady and unshaking.
I step forward. Careful. One step. Then two. My boots splash quietly in the puddles. I pause just close enough to take it. His hand doesn’t twitch.
Fingers trembling, I pluck it from his palm. Our skin doesn’t touch, but I swear I feel heat radiating off him. Something deep and old and hungry coils in the space between us.
“I didn’t even know I dropped it,” I say softly, eyes darting up to meet his. “You… you followed me just for this?”
No reply. His face is unreadable, but his gaze is not. It devours. Not with lechery or lust—not like the drunks and gamblers. This is deeper. Hotter. Like I’m a puzzle he’s been trying to solve since the moment he saw me.
“You don’t have to keep showing up,” I whisper, clenching the bracelet in my hand. “I’m not… I’m nobody.”
His eyes narrow slightly. Not angry. Like I’ve said something stupid. Wrong.
I take a shaky breath. “You’re not with Ataxian enforcement, are you?”
Nothing.
“Because if you are—” I break off, voice cracking. The lie I want to spin dies in my throat.
He just stares. And somehow, I believe him more for what he doesn’t say than I would with a thousand words.
“Then why?” I ask, almost begging now. “Why are you watching me?”
Still silent. But his chest rises and falls once. Deliberate. Like restraint costs him something.
I take a step back, heart racing in my throat. “This isn’t… I can’t afford to be noticed. Not like this.”
He doesn’t follow. Doesn’t flinch. Just watches as I retreat.
I turn. Walk away fast. My hand clutches the bracelet so tight the chain digs into my skin.
I don’t look back. But I feel him.
He didn’t leer.
Didn’t ask. Didn’t touch.
But those eyes… they saw me. Not the dancer. Not the stage body. Me.
And somehow, that terrifies me more than anything else.
Because whatever this is, whatever he wants—I think it’s real. And real things are dangerous.
And I think I’m already in too deep.