The night grinds on. I do my sets on stage, moving my body to the pounding music under strobing lights. Poles, fake smiles, swirling hips – the motions come to me on autopilot while my mind wanders behind a veil of detachment.
A few lewd jokes shouted from the crowd, a few leers, the usual shower of cred-chits and folded bills at my heels. I gather them up with practiced seduction, every wink and lick of my lips calculated to draw just a little more. It's a performance; inside, I feel like I'm watching someone else, some other Lyra up there giving them what they want.
Later, I even manage a private dance for a half-sober corpo-type, not Gold Tie but the kind of bland salaryman who frequents places like this to live dangerously for five minutes. I let him think I'm into it, trailing my fingers along his collar and brushing my lips close to his ear as I straddle his lap in the VIP booth. His hands twitch at his sides; he's itching to touch me, but he knows the club rules – look but don't grab unless you pay extra.
I can smell his cheap cologne mixing with the stale beer on his breath. My mind floats somewhere above it all, counting the seconds. When it's over he leaves flush-faced and I'm a few creds richer, but somehow I feel a little poorer in spirit. Lewd when appropriate, Lyra, I mock myself silently. Anything for the rent, right?
Around 3 AM, the club is winding down. The crowd has thinned to a few stragglers and hard-luck cases clinging to their last moments of neon bliss. I'm bone-tired, sitting in a corner nursing a bottle of water and waiting for final call.
That's when I notice Big Roman and Mace exchange a look near the bathrooms. Roman's massive frame blocks the hallway as he speaks into his comm piece. Mace's face is drawn tight with the kind of frown he saves for real trouble.
Curious, I haul myself up and drift toward them. I catch a glimpse past Roman's shoulder—someone is slumped on the tile floor of the men's bathroom, half-hidden by the door. A pale arm in a dirty jacket sleeve sprawls out into the hall.
My stomach sinks. I recognize that jacket. It belongs to Jim, a quiet regular who usually sits at the end of the bar, nursing one drink all night. He always tipped me a couple of creds even if I never danced for him specifically. He was harmless, just another lost soul in this place.
Now he's looking very still.
Mace sees me and steps into my path, gently but firmly redirecting me back toward the bar with a hand on my shoulder. "Go on, Lyra. Get your stuff. Don't need you back here," he says, voice soft but urgent.
"What happened?" I ask, even though I already know. My eyes dart to the half-open bathroom door. I can make out the scuffed floor, one flickering fluorescent light inside, and Jim's lifeless hand.
Mace's lips press into a thin line. "Overdose," he says under his breath. "Chombatta took a bad hit of something. Probably black lace or heaven help him, maybe that new street junk." He shakes his head. "Med crew's on the way."
I feel something twist in my chest. Not quite shock – we're all too used to this – but a heavy sadness mixed with grim resignation. Jim. I never even knew his last name. He was here almost every night, quietly drinking and watching the dancers like he was searching for something in the music and lights. Now he's just another body on a cold tile floor. Just another soul that this place chewed up and spat out.
Around us, the club carries on in its own little bubble of obliviousness. The final songs still play, and one of the girls is half-heartedly finishing her set on stage, unaware or pretending not to notice what's happening in the back.
A couple of patrons have realized something's wrong – I see concerned looks, whispers. But there's no big panic, no screams. It's almost routine. The bouncers know the drill: clear the area, call the medics to quietly cart off the latest victim. Try not to make a scene; overdoses are bad for business.
I bite my lip hard and blink away the sting in my eyes. No one gets out of this place clean. I don't know where I heard that maybe Big Roman said it once, or one of the jaded old dancers on a bad night. It rings in my head now with cruel certainty. You either leave the Chrome Daisy in debt, in handcuffs, or in a body bag.
"Goddammit," I whisper, not sure if I'm cursing Jim for giving in or the world for driving him to it. Maybe both. Maybe myself, too, for being part of this circus.
Roman catches my eye and gives a small shake of his head, a silent nothing you can do. Mace squeezes my shoulder and releases. "Go on, hun," he repeats gently. "We'll handle this."
There's nothing else to say. I nod and turn away, heart heavy, and head to the back to collect my things. The music from the stage transitions into a tinny recording of some exit announcement. The club's shutting down for the night. The dancers move listlessly, ready to go home and wash off the sweat, glitter, and despair. Another night over.