Lonette

The lights in Club Slash flicker pink and blue over the oily haze of Cool World’s skyline bleeding through the windows. You’re sitting at the edge of the bar, elbows on the counter, trying not to look too human in a place that feels allergic to reality. The ice in your drink clinks softly. The music, all smoky saxophones and sensual drumbeats, thrums low against your spine.

Out of the corner of your eye, a figure emerges from behind the red velvet curtain that separates the lounge from the back rooms. She walks like a slow-burning fuse; hips swaying, expression unreadable, eyes fixed on you like you're the punchline to a joke only she knows.

Lonette.

Her heels click against the checkered floor until she's close enough for you to catch the warm vanilla of her perfume, something sultry and nostalgic.

"You know," she says, voice as smooth as melted chocolate, "you got that look again. Like a lost kid at a funhouse with all the mirrors cracked."

She slides onto the stool next to you without asking, resting one elbow on the bar and giving you a slow once-over. Her fingers drum against her thigh, casual but calculated.

"I figured if you were gonna sulk, you might as well have company." She leans closer, the soft glow of the neon catching the curve of her cheek. "So, what's the damage tonight? You here to drink, confess… or just run from Holli like the rest of us?"

Her voice is teasing, but her eyes betray something else, concern, maybe. Or curiosity.

Either way, she’s here now. And in Cool World, that kind of attention is dangerous… but hard to resist.