There were no stars in this part of the city—only the neon buzz of broken lights and the sound of men pretending they weren't lonely.
Maria sat on the windowsill of the upstairs storage room, her legs drawn to her chest, forehead pressed against the cold glass. The bar throbbed with music downstairs, but up here, it was quiet. The kind of silence that screamed louder than noise ever could.
Outside, the world sparkled. Flickering billboards. Headlights slicing through midnight. Laughter echoing from lovers with somewhere to go.
*To the world, it was Friday night.*
*To her, it was just another reminder that her life had stopped moving long ago.*
She watched the lights and felt none of them belonged to her. It was strange, how everything out there glowed—yet all she felt inside was ash.
*She had been five years old when her father sold her.*
Not seventeen. Not even old enough to know what shame was.
She remembered the day: the scent of rain on metal, the sound of a beer bottle clinking against another as he made the trade.
Two bottles. That's all it took.
No contract. No explanation. Just the weight of a man's hand on her back and the silence of a father who didn't even look her in the eye.
That was the first time she learned that being born a girl in this world came with a price.
And sometimes, that price was less than liquor.
She didn't cry. Not then. She was too confused. She thought she'd be coming home by dinner.
She never did.
Now she was twenty. And she still hadn't stopped waiting.
The glass fogged beneath her breath. Her reflection stared back—tired, hollow, dressed in glitter that didn't shine anymore. A doll for men to play with, and a ghost when they were done.
Below, the streets shimmered with nightlife. People kissed under flickering signs. Friends staggered from clubs, laughing like they were untouchable. Somewhere, someone was falling in love. Somewhere, someone had a mother waiting up.
And Maria sat here, watching it all from behind a pane of glass.
*The city looked alive.*
*But inside her, it was all funeral music.*
---
The bar downstairs was coughing up cheap remixes and cheaper smoke. Speakers buzzed from overuse, someone's mixtape chewing itself into static while girls in leopard-print miniskirts screamed over vodka. The velvet booths were sticky, everything stale—sweat, gin, and aftershave that belonged to men who never went home.
Maria stayed upstairs, perched on the narrow windowsill like a shadow. Cold glass against her knees, her cigarette half-dead in her fingers.
Outside, the street flashed with 90s grit—neon signs, busted payphones, men with pagers, kids pushing skateboards through puddles of piss and oil. One siren cried in the distance, lazy and uninterested.
Inside her?
Dead silence.
Then came the voice.
*"Maaaariiiaaa!"*
Loud. Sloppy. Unfiltered joy.
The door burst open like it owed him money.
*Nico.*
Fur coat—god knows where he found it—hung loose over bare, oiled skin. Gold chain stuck to his collarbone. Jeans half-buttoned. Eyes wild. His boots clomped heavy, one untied, and he reeked of weed, perfume, and strawberry lube.
He didn't glide in this time.
He *stormed* in like a nightclub threw him out and he still owed it one more dance.
"Holy shit, the dead girl's still breathing." He grinned, loud and golden. "I swear to God, Maria, I thought you finally choked on your own apathy."
She didn't look at him. "You smell like a strip club and regret."
He dropped beside her with zero grace. "Regret paid for my cab."
She side-eyed him. "Whose cab?"
He winked. "Some woman named Carla. She wanted to touch my thighs and talk about her son in college. I told her I liked older women with trust funds. She almost cried. Gave me forty bucks."
"You're disgusting."
"I know," he said proudly. "But I'm resourceful."
He pulled a stick of gum from his boot. "Want one? Tastes like slut and cinnamon."
"No."
He chewed anyway, leg bouncing like a kid high on soda. His shirt was missing. Lip gloss smudged at the corners. He looked like sex and sweat and the worst part of a rave—but his grin?
That grin was stupidly alive.
"You know what I was thinking downstairs?" he said. "While some tourist tried to buy me a blowjob with a fucking Blockbuster gift card?"
Maria stayed silent.
"I was thinking," he continued, "we need to get out of here. Not tomorrow. Not next year. Now. Fuck this whole dying city."
"You say that every week."
"And I mean it every goddamn time." He pulled a crumpled dollar bill from his pocket. "If I can suck off enough businessmen this month, we can at least afford a bus to Texas. Or Vegas. Somewhere with ugly lights and no memory."
Maria finally turned. "You're illogical."
"Yup."
"You're shameless."
"Absolutely."
"You sell yourself for cash and then pretend it's a vacation plan."
He smiled, slow and devilish. "Because if I don't, I'll remember what it actually is."
For a second, his eyes flickered—just one crack in the show. Then it was gone. Back to glitter and grins.
"Anyway," he said, stretching his arms like a cat, "if you're not coming with me, I'll just have to buy a ticket for two and guilt-trip you later. I'm charming. You'll cave."
She stared down at the street. "You're the only lunatic who calls this place home."
He leaned close, breath warm and awful. "And you're the only corpse I like talking to."
Then he stood, slapped his ass dramatically, and strutted toward the stairs. "Now if you'll excuse me, I've got a married woman from Long Island who wants to lick my spine. That's at least dinner money, babe."
"Nico."
He paused.
She didn't look back, but her voice softened just enough to sound like something not dead.
"You're still disgusting."
He laughed loud, mouth open, head back.
"Goddamn right I am."
Then he was gone.
Maria sat still.
Smoke. Streetlight. Silence.
Only now, the silence had teeth.
*Upstairs, the lights flickered like a lie.*
Maria was back on the sill—legs pulled in, smoke between her fingers, the window breathing fog. She wasn't thinking. Or maybe she was just too tired to stop.
Then came the knock.
*Tap. Tap. Tap.*
Not Nico's chaos. This was smaller. Nervous. Cheap perfume slipping in before the door even opened.
*Natalia.*
Tiny waist. Glitter eyeshadow. Bra peeking out of a mesh top. She moved like she was still dancing—shoulders always swaying, lips glossed and practiced. A bruised Barbie in heels too high.
Maria didn't move. "If you want a cigarette, take it."
Natalia hesitated, then stepped inside like she was trespassing in grief.
"No, it's not that. I…"
She played with her hair. Bit her lip. Fake shyness.
"I need a favor."
Maria exhaled. "If it's money, I don't have it. If it's a ride, I'm not leaving."
"It's about Nico."
Silence.
"I want you to ask him," Natalia continued. "To sleep with me. Or—just once. Just one night."
Maria turned her head slowly. Her eyes were hollow and hard. "Are you serious?"
Natalia flinched under the stare, but nodded. "He talks to you. He listens. He's always touching people but never lets anyone close. I—I just want to feel something. Even if it's fake."
Maria stood. Cigarette forgotten. "You think he's some fucking souvenir? Some goddamn prize to win?"
Natalia's voice cracked. "I'm not trying to own him, Maria. I just want… warmth. I want someone to look at me like I matter. Even if it's only for a night."
Maria took two steps forward. Her voice was ice. "Then buy a mirror and lie to yourself like the rest of them. Don't drag Nico into your desperation."
Natalia blinked, wounded. "You think you're better than me?"
"No," Maria said. "I think I'm already dead. But I won't help you bury someone else."
She brushed past Natalia, the air burning between them.
Down the stairs. Past the thump of bass. Past the booths sticky with sweat and sex. Past the men who didn't know her name but loved her legs.
She pushed through the back door and stepped into the alley.
The night air stung.
And still, the city glowed.
**Neon bleeding onto garbage.
Laughter echoing from mouths that hadn't felt joy in years.
Perfume masking rot.
Desire masking decay.
Glitter stuck to corpses.
Every light a lie.**
Maria lit another cigarette with shaking fingers. Her lungs burned.
She wanted to scream—but even that felt useless here.
*Because in this city, you didn't run from the darkness.*
*You danced in it. You kissed it.*
*And eventually, you became it.*
Across the city—past the broken glass and velvet sins of Maria's world—was a different kind of darkness.
Not the kind that moaned through alleys or curled under bar stools.
This one sat behind mirrored walls, wore silk ties, and signed things in blood you couldn't see.
*The city called him Mr. Laurent.*
The boardroom called him genius.
And those who truly knew him?
They didn't call him anything at all.
He stood alone in a sky-tall glass tower, staring out over the city like it owed him something. Maybe it did.
Fifteen years of making it bleed to stop it from rotting.
His reflection in the glass was vague, elusive. Like even the mirror was afraid to define him. Sharp cheekbones. A suit tailored to precision. Tired eyes that didn't dare blink.
Beneath his cufflinks were bruises no one asked about.
Behind his stillness, a storm—contained, calculated, and cold.
A woman stood beside him. Blonde. Elegant. Uncomfortable.
"Mr. Laurent," she said softly, "the Minister of Trade just signed the offshore approval. It's going through."
He didn't move. Just sipped from a glass of something old and bitter.
"Did he sign it," Laurent asked, voice low and distant, "or did he believe in it?"
She hesitated. "I… I don't think that matters."
He turned.
And just like that, she remembered what fear used to feel like.
His smile was slow. Not cruel. Just… tired.
"It always matters," he said, more to the window than her. "Belief is what makes cowards into kings. Or corpses."
She left, breath hitching.
He watched her go. She reminded him of someone.
But then again, they all did—until they didn't.
Behind him, the door clicked again. Not a secretary.
It was him.
Dark suit. White gloves. A face too quiet to remember. Eyes that never flinched.
Laurent didn't turn. "Did she deliver the tapes?"
The man nodded. "Encrypted. Room 308 at the Red Iris Club. The senator's son is on it. The girl too."
Laurent's grip tightened on the glass. A tiny crack laced through it like a vein.
"She's the one from the orphanage?"
"Yes."
Silence stretched long and uneasy.
"She was just a kid," the man added, lower.
Laurent exhaled. Not regret. Not relief. Just the echo of a decision already made.
"Leak it," he said. "Two weeks. Right before the vote."
"And the girl?"
"She'll be a martyr before she becomes a ghost. Better than silence."
The man hesitated. "She'll suffer."
Laurent turned, eyes sharp and clear.
"She already has. I'm giving her a purpose."
The man said nothing. He understood. Or maybe he didn't. But he obeyed.
"Also," Laurent said, walking toward his desk, "pull funds from Ravel Corp. Starve them, don't kill them. Chaos is for amateurs. We want fear. And memory."
"What about the chairman?"
Laurent's hand hovered over a silver pen. "Let him know. Let him feel it. Then let him rot."
And just when the air couldn't get colder—he smiled again. Smaller. Sadder.
"Tell me," he added, "how many girls like her will have to die before someone listens?"
The man didn't answer.
Because there wasn't one.
"Good," Laurent whispered. "Then make them listen."
Thunder muttered somewhere in the distance. The rain hadn't started yet.
But it would.
Laurent stood still for a long time, eyes on the city that had made him what he was.
**He didn't run bars.
He ran narratives.
He ran silence.
And somewhere deep down—he still wanted to be good.
He just forgot what that meant.**
she's new. No records. No history. Looks barely legal."
Laurent's jaw tensed. "Then she isn't new. Just buried."
The man didn't respond. He knew better. He only waited, still as a shadow stitched to the room.
Laurent's fingers tapped the rim of his glass. Once. Twice. The ice barely clinked—held together like him, barely melting.
"Burn the original," he said at last. "Leak the copy to the journalist in Sector 5. The loud one. The one who thinks words still matter."
"And the senator?"
Laurent's eyes drifted to the city below—its twisted beauty, its false light.
"Let him squirm. Let him try to clean the blood with a press statement. I want desperation. I want panic. The kind that smells like sweat under cologne."
The man turned to leave.
"Oh—and Elias," Laurent added, voice soft like a knife's edge.
"Yes, sir?"
"If the girl survives this... offer her a job."
Elias blinked. The surprise never reached his face. "What kind of job?"
Laurent's lips barely moved. "The kind that pays more than two bottles of vodka."
Then silence again—vast, tall, and glass.
The kind of silence that didn't scream.
It watched.
Somewhere across that silence, Maria lit her third cigarette.
She didn't know her name was on a list.
Didn't know there was a man in a tower already threading her into his next move.
She only knew the night was loud again.
And that inside her—somewhere deeper than she wanted—something had started shifting.
Not healing. Not yet.
But moving.
And in a city like this, that was enough to make the darkness pay attention.
---