Links to previous parts:
Proluge
Setup Pt. 1
Author’s Note:
Hi everyone, I'm back to writing and posting on the subreddit after a very long time. Since the last time I guess a lot has changed in me and I have turned into a very different individual in terms of my kinks. I think I have reached this level where I am the only person who can satisfy myself. Thus I had no other idea than to write a story myself and share it with the ones who share similar thoughts with me.
I am really sorry to all my readers and to all who are loving this story so far. I genuinely wanted to add BDSM and wanted the real story to start from this chapter. Turns out I got so obsessed in the writing process of building up before the first scene. That I ended up adding so much detail into this. But I can assure you something nice is coming up next for y’all… Just trust me!
Disclaimer:
This is a completely fictional story and over the course of time as you read, you might feel it is getting insanely violent and graphic. If you ever feel like backing off, please do that. If you feel that this isn't for you, then please stop reading right there because I think it's not for the faint-hearted.
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By the time I made it back to the dressing room, my palms were red, my thighs ached, and the balls of my feet felt as though somebody had spent the last three hours hammering them with a screwdriver.
I dropped into my chair in front of the mirror.
"Remind me why we do this again?" Jenna asked from two seats down, staring at her reflection while she tried to scrape a stubborn clump of eyelash glue from her eyelid.
"Rent," Roxy answered immediately.
"Rent, groceries, electricity, and the occasional delusion that one day I'll have enough money to disappear into an i and never speak to another man again," I added.
Roxy pointed at me. "See? That's financial planning."
Jenna laughed, finally managing to pull the false eyelash free. "I'm serious. I spent forty minutes tonight listening to a man explain cryptocurrency to me. Forty minutes. He kept saying he could teach me how to become financially independent."
"Was he wearing a wedding ring?" I asked.
"Two."
"Then maybe he should start by becoming emotionally independent from his wife."
Roxy nearly choked on her water.
I leaned closer to the mirror and began working a cotton pad over my eyelids, loosening the glitter and dark eyeshadow that had accumulated around them. The first swipe left a grey streak beneath my eye. The second caught a stubborn patch of shimmer near the corner. I rubbed more gently, careful not to drag the skin, until the makeup began to dissolve into the cotton.
Under the stage lights, my face always looked sharper than it did in daylight. The eyeliner made my eyes appear larger, the glitter caught every movement, and the foundation hid the little things I'd rather not have customers noticing. Here, under the flat white bulbs around the mirror, everything looked more ordinary. The tiredness around my eyes was easier to see.
"At least you got paid to listen," Roxy said.
"Not enough to listen to that particular man."
"That's the problem with this job," Jenna said, reaching for a makeup wipe. "They think because they've paid for a dance, they've bought the right to tell you their entire life story."
"Or yours," I said.
"Exactly. One guy asked me if I had a boyfriend tonight. I said yes. He asked if my boyfriend knew what I did for work. I said he did. Then he spent five minutes explaining why no respectable man would ever date a stripper."
Roxy stared at her. "And you let him finish?"
"I wanted to see how long he'd keep talking before he realised the irony of giving relationship advice to a woman he was trying to pay to flirt with him."
That earned a round of laughter.
I folded the used cotton pad and reached for another. There were still traces of glitter along my lower lash line, tiny silver flecks that refused to come off no matter how much remover I used. I dabbed at them until my eyes watered, then blinked a few times and leaned back.
People had all sorts of ideas about this job. Some imagined we loved every second of it. Others thought we must hate ourselves to do it. Most seemed to believe there were only two possibilities: we were either desperate or secretly in love with every man who handed us a few notes.
The truth was less interesting to them.
Sometimes I liked the work. Sometimes I hated it. Sometimes I had a brilliant night and went home feeling like I could take on the world. Other nights, I sat in my car for ten minutes before starting the engine because I couldn't bear the thought of speaking to another human being.
The money helped. It paid my bills, kept food in my fridge, and gave me a degree of independence I wasn't willing to surrender just because somebody else had opinions about how I earned it.
But the money didn't make every customer tolerable. It didn't make my feet hurt less or stop a stranger from confusing professional friendliness with personal interest. And it certainly didn't mean I owed anybody a piece of myself.
"What's your plan, then?" Roxy asked, pulling her hair into a loose ponytail. "When you're finally rich enough to escape us?"
"First, I'm buying a house with a bathroom big enough that I can turn around without hitting my elbow on something."
"Ambitious."
"Then I'm getting a job where I can sit down whenever I want, eat lunch without somebody calling my name, and wear shoes designed by people who understand that feet are supposed to be comfortable."
Jenna looked at my towering platforms beneath the bench. "You voluntarily put those things on."
"For money. That's a very important distinction."
"And after that?" Roxy asked.
I shrugged, smoothing a little moisturiser over my cheeks now that most of the makeup was gone. "I don't know. Maybe I'll travel. Maybe I'll go back to studying something. Maybe I'll figure out what I actually want to do when I'm not busy trying to pay for everything."
For a moment, nobody joked.
It was a strange thing about working nights. You saw the same people almost every day, knew their routines, recognised their moods, and could tell from the way somebody dropped her bag whether she'd had a good shift. Yet there were whole parts of their lives you only learned about in fragments, usually somewhere between removing false eyelashes and looking for a missing sock.
Roxy wanted a house of her own. Jenna wanted to stop worrying about money every time her car made a strange noise. I wanted the freedom to make plans without calculating how much each one would cost.
None of those things sounded particularly glamorous.
They sounded like life.
"Speaking of money," a voice called from the far end of the room, "can someone explain why we're wearing this ridiculous outfit again?"
I looked over.
Tasha was standing beside her locker, tugging at the hem of her stage costume with an expression of deep personal betrayal. She was tall and broad-shouldered, with warm brown skin, long black braids gathered into a high ponytail, and gold hoops that swung whenever she shook her head. She had a habit of speaking as if she were delivering a closing argument in court, even when the subject was something as ordinary as a missing hairbrush.
Tonight, the subject was our schoolgirl outfits.
The club had introduced them a few months ago as a themed look for certain nights: crisp white shirts, plaid miniskirts, knee-high socks, and enough little details to make the whole thing look deliberately overdone. The customers loved it. The dancers, for the most part, had rather different feelings.
"Because apparently, grown men will throw money at a woman in a pleated skirt," Jenna said.
Tasha looked down at herself. "I have paid taxes in this country for years. I have signed rental agreements. I know how to cook three different curries. Why am I dressed like I have homework due tomorrow?"
Roxy burst out laughing.
"Because the homework is making rent," I said.
"Well, I'm failing that class emotionally."
Across the room, a petite redhead named Chloe turned around on her stool. Her freckles stood out beneath the makeup she'd only half removed, and her copper hair had fallen loose from its bun, leaving strands stuck to her cheeks. She was still wearing her white blouse and tartan skirt, though she'd already taken off her shoes and was rubbing her heels with both hands.
"Don't complain too loudly," she said. "I made more in this outfit tonight than I did during my entire shift last Tuesday."
Tasha pointed at her. "That's exactly what I hate about it. It works."
"Works beautifully," Chloe corrected. "I had a guy tip me just because I told him I was old enough to rent a car."
Jenna stopped wiping her face. "Please tell me you charged him extra for the conversation."
"I should have. He spent ten minutes telling me about his first car."
"Was it a Ferrari?" Roxy asked.
"No. A Honda Civic."
I looked up from my bag. "What's wrong with a Honda Civic?"
"Nothing. That's what made it worse. He was talking about it like he'd personally invented the automobile."
I laughed, and Tasha threw her hands up.
"See? This is what I'm talking about. They don't even want the outfit. They want the fantasy attached to it. You could walk in wearing a bin bag and some of these men would still find a way to make it weird."
"Don't give the manager ideas," Jenna said. "Next week, we'll be wearing bin bags with matching knee-high socks."
"At least bin bags would be cheaper to replace."
Chloe leaned forward, elbows on her knees. "Honestly, though, I hate the socks most. They leave these marks around my legs, and by the end of the night, I'm itching like I've been attacked by a thousand mosquitoes."
"Then stop scratching them," Tasha said.
"I'm not scratching. I'm trying to restore circulation."
"You look like you're trying to start a fire."
The room filled with laughter again.
I glanced at my own outfit hanging over the back of my chair. I'd worn the schoolgirl look more than once, and I understood the appeal from the customers' perspective. It was familiar, instantly recognisable, and just theatrical enough to turn a normal night into a theme. The club knew that. The manager knew that. And the numbers on our pay slips made it difficult to pretend we hadn't noticed.
Still, there was something absurd about spending hours perfecting our makeup, choosing shoes that could break an ankle, and squeezing ourselves into clothes we would never wear outside the club, all to sell a version of ourselves that had very little to do with who we actually were.
"I hate the skirt," I admitted. "The waistband never sits right, the pleats get caught whenever I sit down, and I spend half the night checking that everything is still where it's supposed to be."
"Thank you!" Tasha said, pointing at me as though I'd finally provided evidence for her case. "Someone understands."
"But," I continued, "I made enough in it last Friday to cover my car insurance and groceries for the week."
Tasha's expression fell.
"Don't do that."
"Do what?"
"Bring facts into my complaint."
Roxy laughed so hard she had to put her water down.
Chloe pulled one knee towards her chest and rested her chin on it. "That's the thing, isn't it? We can hate the outfit and still be glad we're wearing it. Both can be true."
The room quieted a little.
She shrugged. "I mean, I hate the whole performance sometimes. The smiling, the small talk, pretending a man is fascinating because he bought me a drink. But I like being able to pay my bills without calling my parents every time something goes wrong. I like being able to buy my own things. I like not having to ask permission."
"Exactly," I said.
It was the simplest way I'd heard anyone put it.
The job wasn't a fairy tale, and it wasn't a tragedy either. It was work. Some nights were good, some were bad, and some left you wondering whether the money was worth the headache. But it gave us options, and options mattered when you didn't have much else to fall back on.
Tasha sighed dramatically and began unbuttoning her stage blouse. "Fine. I'll wear the stupid skirt. But if one more man calls me a schoolgirl, I'm charging him a fee for emotional damages."
"Put it on the menu," Jenna suggested. "Extra charge for making us listen to your opinions."
"That would bankrupt half the club."
"Then we'll finally have enough money to disappear into the mountains," Roxy said.
I laughed, reaching for my stage outfit, which I'd folded over the back of my chair. The black fabric had lost some of its shine beneath the harsh dressing-room lights, and the inside was still damp from the heat of the performance. I turned it inside out, checked that nothing had been left in the pockets, and folded it into my bag.
Then I pulled off my black thigh-high stockings.
The fabric resisted slightly around my knees before sliding down my calves. I rolled each stocking carefully rather than leaving it tangled on the floor, then tucked them into a separate compartment of my bag. My legs felt strangely bare without them. There were faint lines where the elastic had pressed against my skin, and I rubbed one of them with my thumb while flexing my ankles.
Next came the heels.
I undid the silver buckles at my ankles and loosened the straps, then carefully stepped out of the black patent-leather platforms. The shoes landed beside my chair with two heavy clunks. Nine inches of heel and a massive front platform had seemed perfectly reasonable when I'd put them on earlier. Now they looked like instruments of torture.
I rolled my ankles, stretched my toes, and pressed the soles of my feet against the cool floor.
"Oh, that's better," I murmured.
"Every single night," Jenna said, looking down at her own shoes. "We put ourselves through all this, and then we complain about it like we didn't know what was coming."
"That's because tomorrow we'll forget how much it hurt," Roxy replied. "Then we'll put them on again and make the same terrible decisions."
I laughed and reached into my bag for my clothes.
First, I pulled out my white crop top. I shook it open, found the neckline, and slipped it over my head, guiding my arms through the short sleeves. The fabric settled against my shoulders, and I tugged the hem down over my ribs before adjusting the front. Its deep V-neckline left the upper part of my chest exposed, while the two front panels met at a small knot in the centre. I tightened the tie, then loosened it slightly when it felt too restrictive.
I checked the result in the mirror, pulling one sleeve straight and smoothing a crease near my waist.
The top was casual enough for the journey home, though the bright white fabric looked almost startling against the darker clothes scattered around the dressing room.
My blue plaid miniskirt came next. I stepped into it carefully, pulled the low waistband up over my hips, and adjusted the fabric until the red and yellow tartan pattern sat evenly across the front. The pleats had become slightly flattened in my bag, so I ran my hands over them, separating the folds until the skirt flared properly again.
I turned sideways to check the waistband in the mirror, tugged the hem into place, and made sure the fabric wasn't caught beneath itself. It was a simple outfit, but after hours in my stage clothes, even ordinary cotton felt like a luxury.
I picked up my jacket and draped it over the back of my chair while I sorted through the rest of my things. My phone was where I'd left it. My wallet was zipped into the small inside pocket of my bag, and the cash I'd earned was tucked safely away. I counted the notes once more, mostly out of habit, then secured them before putting everything back.
That was when somebody knocked on the door.
"Sorry? Can I come in for a second?"
It was Daniel.
I knew his voice before I looked up. He was one of the younger members of the floor staff, tall and lean, with thick brown hair that never quite stayed in place and a narrow face that made him look younger than he probably was. He usually wore a black button-up shirt with the sleeves rolled to his forearms, black trousers, and a little staff badge clipped near his chest. Tonight, his collar was slightly crooked, and he had a clipboard tucked beneath one arm.
He pushed the door open before anyone answered.
Then he stopped.
For one second, he looked straight at the room. His eyes caught the scattered clothes, the women sitting in various stages of changing, and the row of open bags beneath the mirrors.
His face went bright red.
"Oh, God. I'm so sorry!"
He spun around so quickly that the clipboard nearly slipped from his arm.
"I didn't know you were changing! I knocked, but I thought—sorry. I'll come back!"
"Daniel!" Roxy called.
He froze in the doorway, still facing the corridor.
"You're fine, sweetheart. Nobody's going to arrest you."
"I'm really sorry," he repeated. "I didn't know you were changing. Marcus asked me to bring you the revised rota, and he said you were all in here. I should've waited for somebody to answer."
"Well, yes," Jenna said. "That's generally how doors work."
"Jenna," I said, laughing.
"What? I'm teaching him."
Daniel covered his face with one hand. "I'm never going to hear the end of this, am I?"
"Not a chance," Roxy replied. "Come on in. We're decent enough."
He glanced over his shoulder, clearly uncertain whether that was a trap.
I had just finished adjusting my skirt, so I waved him in. "It's okay, Daniel. You can turn around now."
He stepped inside cautiously, keeping his eyes firmly on the clipboard as though it contained the most fascinating document ever written.
Up close, I could see the little details I'd never paid much attention to during a shift: the faint freckles across his nose, the slight crease between his eyebrows when he was concentrating, and the way his fingers kept rearranging the edges of the papers even though they were already perfectly straight.
"Marcus wants everyone to check next week's schedule before leaving," he explained. "There are a few changes because two people requested different shifts. He asked me to make sure nobody misses them."
"That's all?" Roxy asked.
"That's all."
"You walked into a room full of half-dressed women to deliver paperwork?"
"I didn't know you were changing!"
"Daniel, darling, we are literally in a dressing room."
He groaned. "I know that now."
Jenna leaned back in her chair, grinning. "You should've seen your face. You looked like you'd accidentally walked into a police raid."
"I was trying to be professional!"
"Nobody said you weren't."
"You all keep laughing at me!"
"Because you're easy to tease," I told him.
He looked at me, finally allowing himself a small smile. "I'm beginning to realise that."
Roxy patted the empty chair beside her. "Sit down. Tell us something interesting. We spend all night listening to men talk about themselves. It's only fair that somebody else gets interrogated for a change."
"I have work to do."
"So do we. Look how well that's going."
Daniel glanced towards the door again, but the corner of his mouth had started to lift.
"Fine. One minute."
He sat on the very edge of the chair, still clutching the clipboard.
"First question," Jenna announced. "What's the strangest thing you've seen at this club?"
Daniel thought about it.
"Do you want the answer that won't get me fired?"
"Now we're interested," Roxy said.
He laughed. "A man once asked me whether the dancers accepted payment in cryptocurrency."
I stared at him.
"No."
"Yes."
"What did you say?"
"I told him I'd have to ask the manager."
Jenna slapped her knee. "You should've told him the blockchain doesn't accept bad decisions."
Roxy burst out laughing, and I shook my head.
"Imagine trying to buy a lap dance with imaginary internet money," I said. "I'd pay good money to see Marcus's face."
"Please don't give him ideas," Daniel replied. "He's still annoyed about the time somebody tried to pay for a bottle of champagne with a gift card."
The conversation drifted from ridiculous customers to the staff's own lives. Daniel told us he was saving for a place of his own but had discovered that rent in the city seemed designed for people with three salaries and no need to eat. Jenna offered to teach him how to make cheap meals that didn't consist entirely of instant noodles. Roxy told him that moving in with a partner was wonderful until you discovered how many opinions two people could have about where to put a toaster.
"Is that a real argument?" he asked.
"It becomes a real argument when the toaster is on the wrong counter for the fourth time," she said.
I laughed. "Wait until you argue about the thermostat. That's when you find out whether you truly love someone."
Daniel looked horrified. "I live alone. I can set the temperature to whatever I want."
"Enjoy that while it lasts," Jenna told him.
For a little while, the dressing room felt less like the place where we wiped off our makeup and packed away our stage clothes and more like any ordinary room where people happened to be tired at the end of a long day.
That was one of the things I liked about the girls. The job could be exhausting, and the world outside could be quick to judge us, but in here we could complain about money, relationships, bad customers, and our uncertain futures without having to explain why any of it mattered.
Daniel glanced at the clock on the wall and jumped to his feet.
"Oh, I really do need to get back. Marcus is waiting for me."
"Go on, then," Roxy said. "Before he sends a search party."
Daniel gathered the clipboard and stood near the door. "Again, I'm sorry about earlier. I genuinely didn't mean to walk in while you were changing."
"It's fine," I told him. "Just wait for an answer next time."
"I will. Promise."
"And Daniel?" Jenna called.
He looked back warily. "Yes?"
"Next time you want to see us, just say so."
He stared at her, his face turning pink all over again.
"Goodnight, Jenna."
"Goodnight, sweetheart."
He disappeared into the corridor, and we heard him laughing to himself as he walked away.
Roxy leaned back in her chair, satisfied. "That boy is never going to survive working here."
"He'll be fine," I said. "He's probably the only man in this building who apologises when he accidentally opens the wrong door."
"Give him time," Jenna replied. "We'll ruin him yet."
I smiled and reached for my shoes.
My green New Balance 9060s were buried near the bottom of my bag, beneath a makeup pouch and a tangled charging cable. I pulled them out, sat down, and slid my feet into them one at a time. The thick soles felt soft beneath my heels, and the cushioning took the pressure off the tender spots near my toes. I laced them up, tightened each knot, and stood to test my balance.
After hours in the platforms, I felt almost absurdly short.
I picked up my black heels and tucked them into the bag, then checked my reflection one last time. My face was clean of most of the glitter, my hair had begun to lose its shape, and a faint line from the stockings remained around one thigh. I brushed a few loose strands away from my face and zipped up my jacket.
"See you tomorrow," I said, lifting my bag.
"Don't let any idiots ruin your night," Roxy called.
"No promises. Apparently, they're everywhere."
Jenna laughed as I pushed open the door.
The corridor was quieter now. The bass still thudded through the walls, but the club sounded distant, as if somebody had closed a door between me and the last few hours of my life. I passed the bar, nodded to the security guard, and headed for the back exit.
The night air touched my face as soon as I stepped outside.
I pulled my jacket closer and reached into my pocket for my cigarettes. I hadn't always smoked. In fact, I'd hated it when I was younger. I hated the smell that clung to clothes, the bitter taste it left in my mouth, and the way people seemed to reach for a cigarette whenever they didn't know what else to do with their hands.
Then my ex had introduced me to it.
One cigarette became something I tried when I was stressed, then something I reached for when I was angry, and eventually something I bought without thinking. He'd made it seem harmless back then, one of those things couples did together. We'd been over for a while now, but some habits outlasted the people who gave them to you.
I tapped a cigarette out of the packet, placed it between my lips, and flicked my lighter. The first drag scratched the back of my throat. I coughed quietly, annoyed with myself, then kept walking.
My phone vibrated inside my pocket. I took it out to check the time.
2:04 a.m. ; 2 percent battery
The display was cracked across one corner, a thin web of fractures stretching towards the middle of the screen. A deeper line ran along the bottom, and sometimes the touch stopped responding near the edges. But the phone still worked, and that was enough for now.
My wallpaper was an old photograph of the three of us. Mum sat in the middle, smiling at whoever had been holding the camera, while Dad stood beside her with one arm around my shoulders. I was younger in the picture, my hair untidy, my smile too wide, my face caught in that awkward stage between childhood and growing up. Dad looked as though he'd been trying not to laugh. Mum, as usual, looked like she knew exactly what was going on.
I kept that picture there because I was afraid of forgetting the little things. The exact shape of Mum's smile. The way Dad's eyes narrowed when he was trying not to laugh. The version of myself who hadn't yet learned what it meant to lose someone and continue living as though the world hadn't changed.
I knew they weren't inside the phone. I knew a photograph couldn't bring anybody back. But having them together on my screen made it feel as though some small part of my family still existed in one place. I could carry them with me, even if all I had left were pixels and memories.
Mum died when I was nineteen.
For a long time, I thought losing her was the worst thing that could happen to me. I was old enough to understand what death meant, but not old enough to understand how to live with it. The house felt different afterwards. Quieter in places where it shouldn't have been. Even ordinary things became difficult. I'd catch myself wanting to tell her something that had happened during the day, only to remember that there was nobody on the other end of that conversation anymore.
Dad was still there, though. He was the one person who understood what it meant to miss her in the same way I did. We didn't talk about it as much as we probably should have, but sometimes that wasn't necessary. We could sit in the same room, watching television without paying attention to it, and the silence between us didn't feel empty.
Then Dad died when I was twenty-three.
There were four years between losing Mum and losing him. Four years in which I'd somehow convinced myself that the worst thing that could happen had already happened. Losing Mum had changed the shape of my life. Losing Dad took away the last person who made the world feel remotely familiar.
I locked my phone and slipped it back into my pocket.
Replacing it had been on my mind for months. Every time I looked at the cracks, I reminded myself that I was saving for a new one. I'd started putting money aside whenever I could. A little from a good night, a little more when my expenses were lower than expected. I'd even made myself a rule not to touch those savings unless something genuinely urgent happened.
My next birthday was the deadline I'd set. I wanted to buy myself a decent phone, something with a clean screen and a battery that didn't threaten to die halfway through the day. Nothing ridiculously expensive. Just something nice that I could buy without feeling guilty about it afterwards.
It wasn't a particularly exciting dream, but it was mine.
I took another drag from the cigarette and continued towards the parking area.
The street was almost completely empty. The club's back entrance opened onto a stretch of pavement beside an open parking lot, with no walls or gate separating the parked cars from the road. A handful of vehicles sat scattered beneath the streetlights, their windscreens reflecting patches of yellow light. Beyond them, the road stretched into darkness, lined with shuttered shops and closed businesses. Their metal grilles were covered in old posters and faded advertisements.
A plastic bag scraped across the pavement in the wind. Somewhere far away, a dog barked twice and fell silent. There were no crowds, no impatient horns, no people rushing past with somewhere to be. Just a distant engine now and then, the low hum of the city, and the sound of my own shoes against the concrete.
The streetlight above the parking area blinked.
It glowed for a moment, turning the pavement a sickly yellow, then went out.
I slowed down.
For a few seconds, the parking area disappeared into darkness. The cars became bulky shapes without faces, their windows black, their outlines barely visible against the road. I could still make out the faint glow coming from the club behind me, but the stretch of pavement ahead seemed to have swallowed every other source of light.
I hated the dark.
It was an embarrassing thing to admit at my age, so I rarely admitted it. I could walk into a club full of strangers, stand on a stage beneath a hundred watching eyes, and deal with men who thought money entitled them to things that had never been offered. But put me somewhere dark and quiet, somewhere I couldn't see what was around me, and some small, stubborn part of me became nineteen again.
My fingers tightened around the cigarette.
I remembered my ex telling me to close my eyes. Then the blindfold. The darkness pressing against my face, thick enough that I couldn't tell whether he was standing in front of me or behind me. I'd thought it was a game at first. I'd trusted him enough to let him do it.
Then I'd told him to stop.
He hadn't.
The memory came back in fragments: the fabric against my skin, my own voice growing sharper as I tried to make him understand, the sickening realisation that he had heard me perfectly well. That he knew I didn't want it and had decided that what I wanted didn't matter. I remembered trying to pull away, the panic of not being able to see, and the helplessness of knowing that someone who claimed to care about me was the reason I was afraid.
I dragged in a breath that didn't seem to reach my lungs.
The cigarette trembled between my fingers. I wanted to throw it away and run back inside, though I couldn't have explained what I thought might be waiting for me in the darkness. I knew I was standing in an empty parking lot. I knew he wasn't there. I knew all of that, and my body didn't seem particularly interested in what I knew.
Then the streetlight flickered back on.
The sudden yellow glow caught the silver roof of my Civic, the faded white lines painted on the ground, and the cigarette smoke curling past my face. A car alarm chirped somewhere behind me before going quiet again. The ordinary world returned so abruptly that I almost felt stupid for being frightened.
I stood still until my breathing settled.
Then I took one last drag, dropped the cigarette, and crushed it beneath my shoe.
My car sat a little farther down the open parking area, beneath the unreliable streetlight. It was a faded, scratched silver 2002 Honda Civic, old enough to have a few problems and unremarkable enough that nobody looked at it twice. The windows were tinted so dark that you couldn't see inside. One hubcap was a slightly different shade from the others, and the rear bumper still carried the small dent Dad had always promised to fix.
The paint looked almost white whenever the streetlight came back on. In the darkness, the whole car seemed to vanish.
It wasn't beautiful. It wasn't new. The driver's seat had a permanent crease where Dad used to sit, and the steering wheel had worn smooth in the places where his hands had rested for years. The engine complained whenever I started it on a cold morning, and there was always something the mechanic said needed attention.
But it was the last substantial thing Dad had left me that I could use every day.
I was twenty-two when I got the car. Dad had owned it for years, long enough for the paint to fade and the driver's seat to develop that permanent crease. He'd always insisted it was perfectly fine as long as I looked after it.
I could still hear him saying it.
It's an old car, not a dead car. There's a difference.
I'd laughed at him that afternoon. I hadn't known how much I'd miss hearing him say ordinary things.
After Dad died, the Civic became something I couldn't quite explain to anyone else. It was transportation, obviously. A way to get to work and back without depending on buses or strangers or the kindness of people who might change their minds. But it was also something familiar. Sometimes, when I got inside, I could almost imagine Dad having just stepped out to buy something and being about to return.
I liked knowing that nobody could take it away from me because I'd missed a payment. I didn't owe a bank anything for it. I didn't owe anyone an explanation for where I was going or when I'd be back.
After his death, I started working at the club. At first, it was simply the job I could get that paid enough to keep me going. Rent didn't care about grief. Neither did electricity bills, groceries, or the mechanic who kept telling me the Civic needed another repair. I learned quickly how to make money, how to save what I could, and how to keep going even on days when getting out of bed felt like an unreasonable request.
I hadn't planned for my life to turn out this way. Then again, I wasn't sure anybody's life followed the plan they'd made at nineteen.
I reached the driver's side, unlocked the door, and climbed inside.
My duffle bag landed on the passenger seat with a soft thud. The car smelled faintly of old upholstery and the vanilla air freshener hanging from the rear-view mirror. A few receipts were scattered near the gearshift, and an empty water bottle rolled beneath the passenger seat when I shut the door.
I settled into the driver's seat and let my head rest against the headrest for a moment.
For the first time all night, nobody wanted anything from me.
I hadn't even put the key in the ignition yet. I just sat there, listening to the quiet, with my hands resting loosely in my lap. Outside, the streetlight flickered again, throwing an uneven patch of yellow across the windscreen.
Then my phone lit up in my pocket.
I took it out to check the time again. The cracked display flickered before settling, showing the battery percentage in the corner.
2:47 a.m. ; 1 percent battery
I stared at it for a moment, wondering and thanking its makers that they made this box of technology survive till I reached my car.
I'd meant to charge it before leaving home. I'd meant to do a lot of things, actually.
I placed it on my lap and reached for the duffle bag on the passenger seat. Unzipping the main compartment, I began moving things around, pushing aside my work clothes, a small makeup pouch, and the tangled earphones I'd been meaning to replace for months. My fingers caught on a loose thread near the bottom. I pulled it free and kept searching.
The power bank had to be in there somewhere.
I was almost certain I'd packed it. Or maybe I'd left it charging beside my bed. I couldn't remember. The last few hours had been a blur of music, customers, changing clothes, and trying not to think about the things I didn't want to think about.
I checked the smaller pockets. Tissues. Loose change. A lipstick without its cap. An old receipt folded into quarters.
Nothing useful.
Outside, the streetlight flickered again, throwing the inside of the car into alternating patches of yellow and shadow. I glanced up at it, then returned to the bag, digging a little deeper this time.
My phone vibrated against my thigh, the screen lighting up with another low-battery warning.
"Yeah, yeah. I know," I muttered.
I set it carefully beside me and pulled the duffle bag closer, turning it just enough to see beneath the clothes. The power bank wasn't where I thought it would be, and I was beginning to wonder whether I'd imagined packing it at all.
The car remained silent around me. I hadn't even put the key in the ignition.
I kept searching.
Something tightened around my neck.
I felt the zip tie before I understood what was happening. It was pulled tight from behind, and my head was forced back against the headrest. A burning sensation spread across my neck. I tried to turn, but the tie tightened further, and I stopped. It felt as though one wrong movement could cut my throat.
“Ne dvigaysya, blyat!”
A gun appeared beside my face in the rear-view mirror.
I looked at the reflection and I immediately recognized him.