The music inside Fantasy is already shaking the walls by the time Molly finishes getting ready. The bass thumps through the floor like a second heartbeat, vibrating up her legs and settling in her chest. The dressing room is a blur of perfume, hairspray, glitter, and half-finished conversations. The air is warm, thick with the scent of vanilla lotion and sweat, and the mirrors are smudged with fingerprints and lipstick stains from a hundred nights just like this one.
Molly stands in front of the mirror, leaning close enough that her breath fogs the glass. The fluorescent bulbs above her flicker, buzzing like they're tired of holding themselves together. She drags bright red lipstick across her mouth, pressing her lips together until the color looks sharp and deliberate. Her strawberry-blonde hair falls in soft waves down her back, a little too long, a little too wild. She's been thinking about cutting it to her shoulders, but she never actually does it. Maybe she's afraid she won't recognize herself without it.
Her eyes, big and blue and framed by thick lashes, stare back at her with a mixture of exhaustion and determination. She dusts glitter over her eyelids, watching the shimmer catch the light. She looks pretty. She looks tired. She looks like someone who's learned how to survive by pretending she's stronger than she feels.
Candy sits at the station beside her, curling her long dark hair with practiced ease. She's older than most of the girls, but she carries herself like she's immortal. "You good, baby girl?" she asks without looking up.
"Yeah," Molly says. "Just tired."
Candy smirks. "Aren't we all."
Across the room, Trixie is fighting with a crooked lash. "Where the hell is Megan?" she mutters. "She was supposed to go on before me."
"She's probably outside smoking," Molly says, shrugging. "You know how she is."
But something about it nags at her. Megan always checks in before her set. Always. She's loud, chaotic, impossible to miss. The room feels wrong without her voice bouncing off the walls.
Molly shakes it off and finishes getting ready. Black bra, black underwear, black heels. Simple, clean, classic. The kind of outfit that makes the lights do half the work for her.
She steps out of the dressing room and into the hallway, which is dim and narrow, lit by red bulbs that make everything look dipped in blood. The closer she gets to the stage, the louder the music becomes, a heavy, pulsing beat that makes the floor tremble.
Fantasy's main room is a world of its own. Neon lights glow pink and blue across the walls. The bar is crowded, bottles lined up like soldiers waiting for orders. The air smells like alcohol, sweat, and perfume, a cocktail that somehow feels like home. The stage sits in the center, lit by spotlights that cut through the haze. The pole gleams under the lights, polished and cold. Men crowd around the stage, waving bills, shouting, whistling. The energy is electric, hungry.
Molly steps into the lights, and the crowd erupts.
For a moment, everything else fades. The noise, the stress, the exhaustion, it all melts away under the heat of the spotlight. She moves with the music, letting it guide her. Her body knows what to do even when her mind is somewhere else entirely. She glides across the stage, arching her back, running her hands along her sides. The lights catch the glitter on her eyelids, making her look almost unreal. Men lean forward, eyes glued to her, bills already in their hands.
She spins around the pole, letting the momentum carry her. Her hair fans out behind her, catching the light. The crowd roars. She feels powerful, wanted, untouchable, even if it's all an illusion.
When her set ends, she steps offstage breathless, sweat dripping down her forehead. She can taste the salt on her lips. She grabs a shot from the bar, tosses it back, and feels the burn trail down her throat.
"Good set," Candy says, passing by.
"Thanks." Molly wipes her forehead. "Still no sign of Megan?"
Candy's smile fades. "No. Starting to worry."
Molly doesn't say it, but she is too.
The club feels different tonight. Off. Like something is shifting under the surface.
She heads toward the back door for a smoke break, pushing it open with her shoulder. The night air hits her like a slap, cold and sharp, a relief after the heat inside. The alley behind Fantasy is quiet, lit only by a flickering streetlamp. The dumpsters sit against the wall, overflowing. Cigarette butts litter the ground.
She takes one step outside.
And the world shifts.
But before Molly finds anything, before she even realizes what's waiting for her, something else has already happened.
Something she didn't see.
Something no one saw.
***
Hours earlier, Megan stepped outside with a cigarette between her fingers, her blonde hair glowing under the flickering streetlamp. She shivered, rubbing her arms. "Damn, it's cold," she muttered to herself.
She didn't notice the shadow at first.
She didn't notice the figure standing just beyond the reach of the light, watching her with a patience that felt inhuman.
She exhaled smoke, leaning against the wall. "You scared me," she said suddenly, turning toward the darkness. Her voice softened, confused. "What are you doing back here? You're not supposed to be here."
A pause.
A shift in her tone.
"Hey… are you okay?"
The figure stepped closer, slow and deliberate. Megan's smile faltered. She straightened, cigarette trembling between her fingers.
"Seriously, what's going on?" she asked, taking a step back. "You're freaking me out."
The figure didn't answer.
Megan's breath caught. Her eyes widened. She turned, ready to run, but a hand grabbed her wrist, pulling her back with a force that knocked the air from her lungs.
"Stop. Let go," she cried, struggling, panic rising in her voice.
The alley swallowed her scream.
The cigarette dropped from her hand, hitting the ground and rolling until it burned out. The last thing she saw was the cracked mask glinting in the dim light, emotionless, silent, faceless.
Then everything went dark.
A moment later, the figure dragged her deeper into the shadows, leaving a long, dark trail behind.
The same trail Molly will follow.
***
Molly steps outside, unaware of the horror waiting for her. The cold air hits her skin, raising goosebumps along her arms. She takes one step and slips, hitting the concrete hard. Her palms scrape, her knees burn.
"Damn it," she mutters, pushing herself up.
Then she sees it.
A puddle. Dark. Thick. Reflecting the weak light above.
Blood.
A lot of it.
Her stomach twists. She stands slowly, ignoring the sting in her hands, and follows the trail. It streaks across the ground like someone dragged something heavy.
Or someone.
The alley feels colder suddenly. Too quiet. Too still.
She takes another step and trips again, this time over something solid.
Something human.
She looks down.
Megan.
Still. Wrong. Unmoving.
The scream rips out of her before she even realizes it's hers. Her vision blurs, tears spilling fast and hot. Her breath catches in her throat, coming out in sharp, broken gasps.
"Megan?" Her voice cracks. "Megan!"
She doesn't move.
Her skin is pale. Her lips are blue. Her hair is matted with blood. Bruises circle her neck and wrists. Marks cover her body, not graphic, but unmistakably violent.
Her green eyes stare up at nothing.
Gone.
Molly reaches out with shaking hands and closes them. She can't stand to see them like that. She pulls Megan into her arms, hugging her even though her body is cold and stiff.
"Please," she whispers. "Please wake up."
But she doesn't.
Footsteps echo behind her. A hand touches her shoulder. She flinches.
Candy.
"Oh God," Candy breathes. "Molly… come on, baby girl. Let's get you cleaned up. The cops are here."
Molly nods, numb, and lets her guide her inside. Candy helps wash the blood off her skin, cleans the cuts on her knees, brushes her hair back like she's afraid Molly will break.
The police arrive fast, lights flashing outside, radios crackling. Two officers step inside, their uniforms crisp, their faces tight.
"Miss, we need to ask you some questions," one says gently.
Molly answers them. She doesn't remember what she says. Everything feels distant, muffled, like she's underwater.
When they offer to drive her home, she doesn't argue.
The ride is silent. The city lights blur past the window, streaks of neon and shadow. Her reflection stares back at her, pale, shaken, smeared makeup, red eyes. She barely recognizes herself.
When they reach her apartment, she thanks them and stumbles inside. The place is small, one bedroom, one bathroom, barely furnished. But it's hers.
She strips off her clothes, letting them fall to the floor. She turns on the jet tub, letting the water run hot. Steam fills the room, fogging the mirror.
She steps in, not caring if the water burns. It wraps around her, heavy and comforting. She sinks deeper, letting it cover her body, her ears, her thoughts.
Her eyes close.
And the darkness finally pulls her under.