The bassline throbbed through the floor of Neon Abyss, the city’s most electric nightclub, a pulsing beast that never slept. Strobe lights slashed through the darkness, illuminating writhing bodies and spilled drinks in equal measure. Nastya, all of nineteen and sharp as a switchblade, maneuvered through the chaos with the grace of a panther, her tray of overpriced cocktails balanced like a crown. Her black crop top and leather skirt hugged her frame, a uniform designed to draw eyes, but her glare could cut through any unwanted gaze. She wasn’t here to be ogled—she was here to survive.
“Another round for the frat boys at table twelve,” she muttered to herself, dodging a drunk guy’s flailing arm. “God, I deserve a medal for not pouring this vodka straight into their laps.”
She’d barely set the drinks down when a familiar, greasy voice slithered into her ear. “Nastya, sweetheart, got a minute?”
Victor, her manager, loomed behind her, his cheap suit reeking of desperation and knockoff cologne. He was all smarm and no charm, a walking midlife crisis with a receding hairline. Nastya’s stomach churned, but she plastered on a smile sharper than a stiletto.
“Victor, if I had a minute for every time you called me ‘sweetheart,’ I’d have retired by now. What do you want? I’ve got tips to make.”
He grinned, showing too many teeth. “Oh, you’ll make plenty tonight. I’ve got a little side gig for you. VIP lounge. Me, a buddy, some drinks. Easy money, babe.”
Nastya’s grip on her tray tightened. The word ‘babe’ made her want to gag, but rent was due, and Neon Abyss paid better than any coffee shop gig she could scrape up. Her gut screamed to tell him to fuck off, but her bank account whispered louder. She tilted her head, sizing him up like prey.
“Easy money, huh? What’s the catch, Victor? You don’t strike me as the generous type. Or the type who has friends, for that matter.”
He chuckled, unfazed by the jab. “No catch. Just keep us entertained. Laugh at our jokes, pour some drinks. You’ve got that fire in you—guys eat that shit up. Come on, don’t make me beg.”
“Oh, I’d pay to see that,” she shot back, her voice dripping with mockery. “Fine. But if this turns into anything more than pouring drinks, I’m out. And I’ll make sure everyone knows why.”
Victor raised his hands in mock surrender. “Scout’s honor, doll. All above board. Meet us in ten.”
She rolled her eyes as he slinked off, muttering, “Scout’s honor, my ass. Bet you got kicked out of the Boy Scouts for creeping on the campfire.”
Ten minutes later, Nastya pushed through the velvet curtain into the VIP lounge, a den of excess bathed in dim red light. Plush leather couches sprawled around low tables littered with empty bottles and ashtrays. The air was thick with cigar smoke and the kind of laughter that made her skin crawl. Victor wasn’t alone with a buddy—there were five other men, all in tailored suits that screamed ‘trying too hard.’ Their eyes raked over her like she was the main course, and she felt the weight of their grins like chains.
“Well, damn, Victor, you didn’t say she was this hot,” one of them drawled, a beefy guy with a gold chain that screamed ‘mid-tier drug dealer.’ He leaned forward, elbows on his knees. “What’s your name, sugar?”
Nastya set her tray down with a deliberate clink, her smile a weapon. “It’s Nastya, sugar. And I’m not on the menu, so keep your appetite in check. Who wants a drink? I pour fast, but I bite faster.”
The group erupted in laughter, though it was the kind that made her want to bolt for the exit. Victor clapped her on the shoulder, too hard, and shoved a glass of something amber into her hand. “Relax, Nastya. Have a sip. Loosen up. We’re just having fun.”
She eyed the drink like it was poison but took it anyway, letting the burn of cheap whiskey ground her. “Fun, huh? Your idea of fun looks like a bad mafia movie. What’s next, you gonna make me an offer I can’t refuse?”
Another guy, slick-haired and reeking of too much body spray, grinned. “Oh, I’ve got plenty of offers, sweetheart. Name your price.”
Nastya leaned in, her voice low and lethal. “My price is your dignity, slick. Keep talking, and I’ll have it framed on my wall by midnight.”
More laughter, but it was jagged now, edged with something hungry. They pressed more drinks on her, their voices growing louder, their suggestions less veiled. “Come on, girl, sit with us,” one said, patting the couch beside him. “We don’t bite. Unless you ask nice.”
She dodged the invite with a smirk, perching on the arm of a chair instead, her posture screaming ‘untouchable.’ “I don’t ask nice for anything, champ. And I’ve got teeth sharper than yours. Try me.”
Victor, sensing the tension, tried to play peacemaker, his voice oily. “Hey, hey, let’s keep it light, fellas. Nastya’s just doing her job. Right, hon?”
“Right,” she snapped, her eyes narrowing. “And my job isn’t to be your personal plaything. So let’s stick to drinks and bad jokes, yeah? I’ve heard enough of both tonight.”
The night dragged on, each minute a tightrope walk. Nastya kept them at bay with her wit, deflecting their advances with barbs that stung just enough to keep them laughing instead of lunging. But the air was growing heavier, the looks longer, and Victor’s promises of “keeping things within limits” felt flimsier by the second. She could see it in his shifty eyes—he’d sell her out in a heartbeat if it meant impressing these creeps.
Then, as the clock ticked past midnight, Gold Chain Guy stood up, stretching with a predatory grin. “This lounge is getting stuffy. How ‘bout we take this party to the private pool area out back? Got a hot tub with our names on it. What do you say, Nastya? Bet you look killer in a bikini.”
The others chimed in, their voices a chorus of sleaze. “Yeah, come on, live a little!” “Don’t be a buzzkill, babe!”
Nastya’s heart slammed against her ribs, her mind racing for an out. She forced a laugh, but it was brittle, barely masking the panic clawing at her throat. “A hot tub? With you lot? I’d rather skinny-dip in a piranha tank. But hey, lead the way. I’ll just grab my imaginary swimsuit.”
Victor’s hand landed on her arm, his grip too tight to be casual. “Come on, Nastya. Don’t be like that. It’s just a dip. No harm, no foul.”
She yanked her arm free, her smile a snarl. “Touch me again, Victor, and you’ll be swimming with a black eye. Let’s go see this pool. But I’m warning you—I don’t play nice when I’m cornered.”
As they filed out of the lounge, Nastya’s pulse roared in her ears. The night was spiraling, a dark current pulling her under, and she knew—deep in her bones—that whatever waited by that pool wasn’t just a game. She’d have to fight her way out of this, one way or another.
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