Across the room, half-shrouded in neon haze, sits the gold-tie man again. This time he's not alone. Beside him slumps another figure, tall, face hidden in shadows. Goldtie's eyes lock on me instantly. His grip tightens on the velvet seat. No one else around even watches us—I'm aware of him more than he even knows. The music pulses between us as I twirl, hips swaying, and I feel the weight of that stare. My chest tightens in a familiar pinch of nerves and something... else.
My mind staggers. Who the hell is he? Why's he here at these slow nights? Maybe he has money to burn. Maybe he's nothing more than a man who enjoys overpriced whiskey and my performance. The creak of the floor beneath my boots is the only sound louder than my thoughts. I shoot him a sarcastic smile as Velvet, my persona offering a silent taunt, but he just sips his drink and tilts his head. The other guy remains still as a statue, face turned slightly, watching with an unreadable expression.
The song switches to something harder; the bass kicks again. I plant my feet, running the pole between them, arching my back. Velvet's eyes burn into the audience, pulling every gaze to me. But I can't shake the inkling that I'm not dancing for the small crowd tonight.
I'm dancing for the eyes in the gold tie. The light on stage sets my sweat-damp skin ablaze and I feel heat trailing down my spine. Cold sweat forms at the small of my back even as heat floods my face under all this neon.
Somewhere in the back of my skull a warning siren wails. My foot scrapes the stage floor as my mind recalculates. Part of me wants to bust a grin and wink, play to the gold-tie man, see if I can wring a few creds out of his attention. But another part—Lyra—kicks me in the teeth. She remembers the black card, remembers the weight of something...maybe something bad tied to it. She remembers bodies, broken deals, the reason she doesn't want to play in that world. Not yet.
So I swallow and keep dancing. Velvet never hesitates. Hips pulse. Arms coil and uncoil through the air. Velvet's laugh is pressed behind her lips, not loose and howling. Not tonight.
My eyes flicker with edge. If anyone new is watching, she performs flawlessly. She throws in an extra bend at the waist, a smile at a space that only she sees. Sweat beads along my brow, and it's not from exertion this time.
I can feel the shift like a change in gravity. The air between us tightens. The music blares too loud inside my skull. Every spot on stage glistens and burns. My heart hammers so loud I can't hear the other dancer's music over it. The gold-tie man doesn't move but I sense something in his demeanor, some silent gamble laid down in the smoke-filled gloom between us.
Nothing changes outward. I spin again and again, each turn a blur of neon and leather until my throat is raw. The beat drops deep. Velvet's eyes cut through the haze. But behind them, Lyra is caught in something deeper: curiosity, fear, something that tastes of danger.
I keep dancing, feet sliding lightly on the stage. The second figure beside gold-tie is barely a shape, a bodyguard maybe. He leans in, mutters something. Goldtie tilts his head up once, eyes glittering. He orders another drink but never takes his gaze from me. My cheeks heat under his stare.
Sweat drips off my nose; it feels like I'm being tested. Has he seen too much, or not enough? Has he decided I'm worth something or nothing yet? The song fades to its last bars but I know the night isn't over. The crowd's mostly empty, leaving just the two of them and me in this half-light.
I dip low for a final flourish, closing out the set. Velvet bows, cool and knowing. Applause trickles in, weak but sufficient. Velvet strides offstage but my eyes never slip from the booth. He watches me, still composed. He stands up as I pass, every inch the man with the golden tie—suit neat, whatever foreign scent he wears lost in the club funk.
"Good set" he calls out, voice low. It's not for me though. I rush to the dressing room, breathing hard. I lean against the wall, the air smells of sweat and glitter here. My chest is tight, and not just because I'm wound into a corset.
I catch a glimpse of myself in the small mirror: Velvet gone, just Lyra—baggy tired eyes, a bit of blush smudged on my cheeks. I rest a hand on the glass, as if splitting myself in two. There he was again. In the dirty mirror of my life, another reflection has appeared, golden edges and all.
Tonight I danced and I was watched. Right on cue, the holo-clock upstairs reads midnight now. I light another cigarette, the ember a glow against my trembling fingers.
I exhale a plume of smoke and slip off my heels, feeling both a whisper of relief and a thrill. Velvet goes to sleep. Lyra keeps the secret for another night.