I step into the haze of flashing neon and pounding bass, fingers grazing the edges of my fraying confidence. Spotlight hits like a laser through stained glass — broken color against the skin of Velvet, my stage persona who's supposed to shine. Tonight, Velvet is a little cracked.
The crowd roars for heat and glitter; instead, I stumble through choreography like a ghost in high heels, lost in thought. A synthetic drumbeat thumps in my skull that doesn't match the track. My mind's offline, floating on thoughts of cables that bite and circuits that fail and I clip the edge of rhythm.
Mid-shimmy, I catch a move wrong and nearly topple into a guest's table. Muffled chorus yells something, but I answer with a gyration and a crooked smile that isn't hers.
A middle-aged tech-broker at the front leans in and mutters loud enough for the next lap: "Not feeling you, Velvet." His voice is a cracked vinyl record skipping over the same complaint. For a moment, I'm certain I imagined it. But I hear the canned laughter from some private viewer booth, they know exactly what he said.
I finish the number anyway, wringing out each last drip of performance like a sponge. Velvet twists and turns, sultry like a programmed doll; I plaster on a final wink and glide offstage to hissing applause and whistled appreciation. The noise echoes hollow in my ears. Backstage, the fluorescent lights flicker over the mirror as I peel off a sweat-slick costume. My reflection blinks back at me, eyes hollow under eyeliner and bruising confidence. I want to call the persona's bluff, but there's nothing…
Mira waits by the back door of the lounge, leaning against an amp stack. Her smoky hair flickers red where the neon bleeds in. She sees me before I see her — must've caught my signal-drop on the stage cam. "You okay?" she asks gently.
There's more concern in her voice than in the crowd's holler. There's concern in those warm amber eyes, too. She doesn't call me Velvet, not in private.
I shrug, trying to give the universal club answer. "Yeah, just took a bad loop," I mumble. Mira fishes a menthol cigarette from her pocket and offers it with a tilted brow. I tap my mouth and let it dangle there.
The smoke swirls between us, a moment's privacy in the chaos. She doesn't press. Instead, she says, "You're flickering out there. Someone noticed." She flicks an irony-laced smile, but it's honest.
Her use of the word, flickering, makes my skin crawl, as if I'm a busted neon sign instead of a person. But I know what she means. Lately, I've felt like an image buffering: sometimes I'm all fire and silk, and other times I'm blank. I clear my throat and pop out a joke, testing my guard. "I'd say it's part of the act. Buffering, huh? Must be a system glitch." My laugh is dry.
Mira crosses her arms and nods. "People see it differently. Velvet ain't supposed to lag. Don't give management a reason to think the software's outdated, got it?" I stiffen, damn right I've heard that whispered threat before. She's not accusing me, just warning. "I know, I know, I'm fine," I say, sounding annoyed.
She drops it then, giving a quarter-smirk. "Don't burn out. Take a beat if you need one, but don't disappear on us, okay?" I trace the condensation on a drink someone left on the amp. The liquor's mixed with something bitter enough to make me swallow hard. Mira's eyes search mine once more. "We got your back," she adds softly. Then she's gone, swallowed by the crowd that never sleeps.
Back in my room at Megablock 8, the city's hum sinks me down onto a bed of wire and plaster. The walls are cinderblock with graffiti scars and peeling paint; my mattress is more pillows than spring. I curl up with my holo-tab like it's a security blanket. The holo-screen flickers images of code and subroutine porn — sexy numbers and naked circuits dancing in my lap. I've been teaching myself to hack: cheap video tutorials that crackle with static and badly dubbed lines. Trashy, but worth a shot.
I scroll through an archived vid called Break the Slot: Street Machine Hacking 101. The voiceover is a monotone with an accent I can't place. It feels like a bootleg info-dump on a junk-bazaar thumb drive, but I'm desperate for tools. Each night I tinker after work, fingers pressing panel lights on my tablet like spells, hoping for sparks. Tonight I'm caffeinated and restless enough to try again.
A few steps later, I crouch by an antiquated vending terminal down the block. The tutorial said "spoof the serial," "inject a code", fuck if I know how half the jargon ties together, but I mimic the motions and hack commands until the terminal bleeps. Suddenly the light goes green and out slides an egg-and-synthwich wrap dinner, free. My chest fills with a small triumph.
Of course it's a crappy slush and moldy sandwich, but I hold it up like a trophy. Victory tastes like preservatives and dented plastic hope.
Back at the hostel kitchen table, I share a packet of regurgitated ramen with the ceiling. Not exactly foie gras, but hell, I got it without creds. It's the little wins now, because big runs need careful planning I can't afford yet.
I lean on the holo-tab, fingers tracing circuits I barely understand, dreams of bending tech instead of bending my back. Success, even small, whispers that maybe there's a way to carve out space to breathe.
My triumph feels hollow. On the table next to the holo-tab, the black card glints in the low light. I should slip it back under the false bottom of my sock drawer, but curiosity's a better drug. Instead I pull it out and hold it between thumb and finger. It's matte obsidian, edges gilded thin with gold. If it were an animal, it'd be a venomous spider perched in my palm. I study the lacquered surface, my name embossed in gold on the back: Lyra — Velvet at Stairways. So much weight in a stupid card.
I poke the corner. How many hours I've spent staring at it? It's not expensive — it's priceless, a poison-coated offer from above. I could step through its door, but the last time I tried to walk away… well, I still haven't gotten rid of it. Still haven't thrown it in a shredder or burned it. I don't know why. Hope? Fear? Stupidity?
I remember Mira's warning: we don't disappear; people here vanish. There's a churn in my stomach when I think about Gia, the girl from Chrome Daisy whose face was on the holo-newscast today with a question mark over it. She was my age, lively, with tattoos of drug-fueled promises. Now some girl in a tin helmet says a dancer is missing.
They rumor-jam the hallways: dead, trafficked, sent out of town by crooked owners. But nobody really runs in this city. The only exit for some of us is a loud, unannounced one. Gia's mug shot on the holo-newscast, ringed in amber, hovers like a target. People see her face and whisper of her fate, then look away.
Something about it tightens a screw in my chest: keep moving, keep the next gig, keep hacking this broken city with one finger. If one girl can fall through a crack, I can bet I'm pushing too close to one myself. And the black card in my hand ticks like a bomb with no timer.
Dawn bleeds through grated windows. On autopilot, I wash down the last drops of store-brand coffee. Those holo-drones buzzing in the neon sky outside still won't let my brain rest. Tired or not, I haul my ass out to the club again. The shift's about to start.
I've barely set my keys in the locker when I notice it: a pale, gold-laced envelope stuffed between my scratched metal locker door and the next. It's embossed with my locker number. My fingers twitch. Have we got a room-service courier now? Because this club definitely has no budget for gold edges. My heart skips three counts.
Inside, I find a small, heavy card, textured like those exclusive passes and a note printed in dripping calligraphy: "Private invitation to Stairways." Three words and an address burning on slick paper. My breath hitches around my name, spelled perfectly. I never called them. I didn't send back a hell of a thanks or anything. But they came anyway.
Somewhere, a city that's never asleep pulses on. I slide the invitation back into my grip, skin prickling. The black card in my pocket sees the new gold one. They match somehow; they both want something from me. The question is, what.
Walking to work, I tuck them both inside my jacket, safe near the heartbeat in my chest. Endurance, I tell myself. One more shift, one more hack, one more sneaky bite from a free meal, and then the answer. I tweak the collar of my costume and push through the doors. Velvet's hanging on by a thread.