Sleep

Six Months Earlier:

The bar is called The Velvet Hitch, tucked in the narrow shadow between two embassy-adjacent towers where the golden compound lights barely reach. Inside, everything is low and purple: velvet booths, lilac neon curling like smoke along the ceiling, the faint throb of music that feels more like a heartbeat than a beat. I sit at the far end of the bar, fingers tracing condensation on a glass I haven’t tasted, my diplomatic skirt-and-blouse combo feeling suddenly childish among the glossy women who drift past in laminate minis and collar-leashes.

My friend Lira—an embassy clerk who has already vanished into the crowd with a wink and a promise of “You’ll thank me later”—said only: “Deyan knows things. And she never judges.”

I’m still deciding whether that is comforting or terrifying when she appears.

Deyan slides onto the stool beside me confidently. She is all sharp elegance: cheekbones like blades, hair a severe black sheet that catches the neon and reflects it back violet. A thin choker of polished chrome circles her throat, discreet enough to pass as jewelry, but something about it feels otherwise. She smells faintly of ozone and something sweet, like burnt sugar.

“You’re the ambassador’s daughter,” she says, not a question. Her voice is low, amused, precise. “Lira said you were curious.”

Heat floods my face. I manage a nod, clutching the glass tighter. “I just… wanted to see how the city really works. Outside the compound.”

Deyan’s smile is small, knowing. “Outside the compound, nothing is free. Everything has a price. Even curiosity.” She signals the bartender with two fingers; two tiny violet shots appear. “But some prices are worth paying.”

I stare at the drink, throat dry. “I'm not… I don’t want to be a ****. Not really. I just—” The confession tumbles out before I can stop it. “I want to feel what it’s like when someone else decides. Just for a night. Just to know. To be covered in that sleek laminate.” I rub my legs together unconsciously, the friction sending a forbidden shiver up my spine.

Deyan studies me the way a jeweler studies a flawed stone—not unkindly, but with absolute clarity about what can be cut away. “I know what it's like on your world.” She looks disgusted at the thought. “Order… modesty…”

She reaches into an inner pocket and produces a slim resident chit, matte black with a faint violet circuit glowing beneath the surface. “This will let you use the Wardrobe Machines without tripping embassy alerts. I've transferred the credits for some fun. After that, you come to me if you want more.”

My fingers tremble as I take it. The plastic is warm, almost alive, pulsing faintly against my skin like a secret heartbeat.

Deyan leans close enough that her lips brush the shell of my ear, her breath hot and electric. “First rule, princess: never thank me. Gratitude is a debt. And debts on Torei are always collected in flesh or favors.”

I look down, unsure, my pulse racing with a mix of fear and aching want.

She pulls back, expression unreadable. “Go home, and never see me again. Or stay, finish your drink, and take this chit. See things you've never seen before. Feel things…”

The violet shot waits on the bar like a dare.

I lift it with shaking fingers. The liquor burns sweet going down, spreading a warm, insidious tingle across my body—Torean liquor has some unique properties, ones that make my skin flush and my thoughts soften at the edges.

Deyan watches me swallow, and her smile finally reaches her eyes.

“Good girl,” she whispers, stroking the back of my hand with deliberate slowness, her touch igniting sparks along my nerves. “Let me take you somewhere I think you'll like…”

"Hey! Wake up, princess!" I instantly recognise the familiar voice, and a soft hand shaking my knee.