Chapter Three: Undeniable

A week later, she was in bed alone again.

Sunlight crept through the blinds. Her eyes opened slowly—today, she was back on stage. She sighed. She hated the attention of those strange men, but she hated serving them drinks more.

She got ready like every day. The routine was unbearable, but it was the only thing she knew. Today, though, she wore one of her performance outfits. She was dancing again—and tonight, she was the main performer. She had to be ready.

After Ivy's light performance, it was almost her turn.

Milo knocked on the door before sticking his head inside and calling her name.

“Raven, you’re next.”

He left immediately, and she rose to go to the stage.

_

The lights dimmed to a deep, smoky violet. A slow, haunting melody hummed through the speakers—something sultry and atmospheric, like a spell in sound.

Then she appeared.

Raven stepped into the spotlight wearing black lace, sheer sleeves clinging to her arms, and a velvet corset cinched tight around her waist. Her skin glowed pale under the red and purple lights, and her dark red lipstick curved around a mouth that rarely smiled. Thin silver chains glinted at her throat, swaying as she moved.

She didn’t explode onto the stage. She emerged—slow, deliberate, like rising fog. Her heels clicked faintly on the polished floor. Every movement was fluid, ghostlike, controlled. She trailed her fingers along the pole, eyes lowered, as if lost in her own world.

The crowd hushed.

Unlike Cherry, who commanded attention with noise and fire, Raven pulled it like gravity. Men leaned forward in their seats, drawn in without knowing why. Her dancing was soft but charged, coiled with tension. Every roll of her hips was slow enough to make them ache. Every glance from under her lashes was a quiet dare.

She spun once—elegant, back arched, hair catching the light—then descended to her knees in one smooth motion, head tilted, eyes dark and unreadable.

The crowd exhaled. Some whistled. Others just watched, entranced.

Raven didn’t smile. That wasn’t what they were here for.

She wasn’t playing the fantasy.

She was the fantasy—untouchable, tragic, and just a little dangerous.

The kind of girl you dream about and regret in the morning.

The kind you want to save… or ruin.

As the song ended, she rose, chin high, gaze unfazed by the bills now littering the stage. She turned and walked off, vanishing behind the curtain like a shadow slipping back into the night.

The music faded behind her as Raven stepped through the heavy curtain, breath steady, skin still humming from the lights. She rounded the corner into the backstage hallway, where shadows clung to the walls and the air thickened with silence.

Riko was waiting.

He leaned against the wall with his arms folded, dressed sharp—dark slacks, black shirt unbuttoned just enough to show the glint of his chain. His expression unreadable, as always. Watching her.

She didn’t say anything. Just slowed her steps.

He pushed off the wall and walked toward her—deliberate, confident. His hand reached up to touch her face, thumb brushing lightly along her jaw. She didn’t flinch, but her eyes didn’t meet his either.

Then he kissed her.

Not rushed. Not gentle.

Possessive.

When he pulled back, he said low and smooth, “You did well out there.” A faint smirk played on his lips. “Knew you still had it in you.”

Raven nodded once, quiet. Still catching her breath—but not from the dance.

His fingers trailed down her arm, stopping just before her wrist. “Keep it up, and maybe we won’t have any more problems.”

There was always a threat buried beneath the praise.

Sweet words with a blade behind them.

He stepped back, lighting a cigarette as he turned to leave. Smoke curled in the air as he disappeared down the hall.

Raven exhaled, finally. Alone again.

…

The hallway was dim—quiet, but not peaceful.

Raven moved silently, clutching a small, folded piece of paper in her hand—something she was supposed to give Riko. Her steps slowed as she neared his door, half-open, light leaking through the gap.

She heard Riko’s voice, calm, “Yeah. Tomorrow night. Take her across the border. That client’s been waiting.”

Ozzy responded, gruff, “The new one? She’s barely had time to learn anything.”

Riko, annoyed, “Then she’ll learn fast. He paid double.”

Raven froze.

Her breath caught in her throat, heart slamming against her ribs.

She knew who they were talking about—the new girl, barely eighteen, eyes always wide with fear. There were rumors whispered by girls too scared to say more. About those clients. About the ones who never let the girls come back.

She backed away slowly, silent. Invisible.

The paper still clutched in her hand.

…

That night, Raven lay curled up in bed, eyes wide open in the dark.

The city lights glowed faintly through the blinds, but all she saw was that hallway. All she heard was Riko’s voice.

Her stomach twisted.

She tried to push it down—the dread, the guilt, the helplessness—but it lingered, coiled tighter.

The door opened.

Riko entered, calm as always, shirt half undone, a faint trail of cologne behind him.

He climbed into bed beside her without a word. His hand found her hip, mouth brushing against her neck.

She didn’t resist—she never did—but her body was tense, trembling.

Riko paused, voice low. “You’re shaking.”

Raven forced a breath. “I’m just cold.”

He exhaled, resting his forehead against hers. “Don’t get sick. You just got back on stage. Don’t ruin it again.”

She didn’t answer. His lips found hers again, and she let him.

He got on top of her like always, while she stared at the ceiling.

Her mind was elsewhere.

With the girl who might never come back.

…

The next night, the club was closing. The music had faded. The lights were dim.

Raven sat alone at her station, wiping off her makeup in silence. The room was half-empty—most of the girls had already left. The air still smelled of perfume, sweat, and smoke.

She heard something.

Voices—muffled, but close. Down the hall. By the back door.

She went still, instinct tightening in her chest.

The girl’s voice—frantic, pleading, “No—please, not tonight, I don’t want to—please, I’ll do better—”

Raven’s breath caught.

Ozzy’s voice, calm but cruel, “You don’t get to decide that. Client paid. Time to be useful.”

A harsh rustle. A cry. A door creaked open.

Raven rose from her seat, inching toward the hallway—

—but stopped just before the door.

Her hand trembled against the wall.

The girl screamed again. Then a loud slap.

Silence.

The back door slammed shut.

Gone.

Raven backed away from the dressing room door, her whole body shaking.

She turned and rushed to the bathroom.

She locked the door behind her, heart pounding.

Gripped the sink, her knuckles white, staring at her reflection under the harsh yellow light.

Tears fell fast.

She pressed her lips together to stay quiet, but the sobs came anyway—sharp and painful, like guilt clawing up her throat.

She sank to the floor, curling into herself.

Crying.

Because she knew about the deal.

And she had done nothing.

…

Later, she lay curled up on the bed, face buried in the pillow, shoulders trembling.

The room was dim and silent, except for the distant hum of the city.

The front door opened and closed.

Footsteps. Heavy. Familiar.

Riko entered, loosening his belt, voice almost soft. “What now, baby? Crying again?”

She didn’t answer. She couldn’t.

He sat on the edge of the bed, brushing the hair from her face. “You let shit get to your head too much. I told you, you gotta block it out.”

He kissed her cheek. She flinched—but not enough for him to notice. “I can make it better. You want me to help you feel good, little bird?”

She lay still, breath hitching, eyes blank.

Riko stood, walked to the dresser, unlocked the drawer.

Pulled out a small black case.

She didn’t move.

“You don’t have to hurt. You know that, right?” he said, pulling out the syringe. “I’ll take care of you. You just gotta let me.”

He filled the syringe with practiced ease, tapped out the bubbles, turned to her.

She watched him—eyes hollow, red from crying.

She nodded once.

Not because she wanted it.

Because the guilt was loud.

Because the silence of doing nothing was heavier than the high.

Because she wanted to be numb.

Because maybe, in some twisted way, this was how she punished herself.

Riko knelt beside the bed, fingers gentle as he found a vein.

He slid the needle in like a lover’s touch.

Her breath hitched.

The warmth hit her bloodstream.

Then the float.

Then the quiet.

Her tears stopped.

But not because she was okay.

Because she was gone.

And Riko smiled. “That’s my good girl.”

…

She woke with a start at 9 a.m., the sound of rain tapping against the window like a thousand tiny fingers.

Her stomach churned.

She rolled to the side just in time, retching over the edge of the bed. Her whole body trembled, slick with cold sweat. The taste of acid lingered in her mouth as she sat up slowly, wiping her lips with the sleeve of the oversized T-shirt she’d slept in.

The room was dim—washed in gray light and the rhythm of steady rain.

Riko wasn’t there.

His side of the bed was cold. No note. No message. Just the faint trace of cologne still clinging to the sheets.

She sat there for a long moment, staring at the wet city outside the window. Her chest ached with something she couldn’t name—guilt, fear, or just the hollow echo of everything she'd tried not to feel.

The girl’s screams were still stuck in her head.

She pushed off the blankets and crossed the room in bare feet, stepping over her vomit on the floor. She opened the closet, grabbed the oversized hoodie she always wore when she wanted to disappear, and pulled it on. The fabric swallowed her.

No makeup. No bag. Just the hoodie and a pair of scuffed shoes.

She walked down the stairs, through the narrow hall, out into the rain. It soaked her within seconds, but she didn’t stop.

The city looked different in the daylight—uglier, quieter. She passed people on the street who barely noticed her, a ghost moving through the gray.

She didn’t know what she was going to say.

She only knew where she had to go.

By the time she reached the station, her hood was dripping, her hair plastered to her face. Her fingers were numb. Her heart was louder than the rain.

She stood in front of the glass doors, staring in.

For a moment, she hesitated.

Then she stepped forward.

And walked inside.

.

.

.