Dancing with Red Shadows

{if Helped_Ethan = 0}

Two weeks passed, and the storm in my mind had finally started to quiet. Not disappear—just… soften, like a bruise that still ached if you pressed it, but no longer throbbed every second. It wasn’t easy, pretending things were normal. But somehow, life always finds a way to pull you back in—soft hands, tight leash. Work blurred into routine, and Monica had made it her full-time hobby to drag me out of my head. Coffee runs. Dumb memes. Long talks that danced around the things I wouldn’t say out loud.

I wasn’t looking over my shoulder anymore. Not really. The alley still crept into my thoughts when the nights got too quiet, but I shoved it aside. What else could I do? Dwell on it until I lost my mind?

Tonight, Monica had decided I needed to “remember how to fucking live,” her words exactly. She’d circled a date on my calendar and said we were going out—no excuses. A red-themed party at some club she swore would “resurrect my soul.”

I didn’t argue. Maybe because part of me was tired of carrying the weight of silence. Or maybe because a night of noise, sweat, and booze sounded like a kind of relief.

So here I am, standing in front of my mirror, adjusting the neckline of a red dress. Lips painted to match. Eyes lined with just enough smudge to add that old Thalia back. I don’t feel like myself exactly—but that might be the point.

{else}

Two weeks had passed, but the unease clung to me like a second skin—tight, invisible, impossible to peel off. Every shadow felt like it watched me. Every glance from a stranger lingered just a beat too long. Even normal things—laundry, groceries, checking my damn mail—felt like walking into some unseen trap.

There are forces at work you can’t begin to comprehend. Ethan’s voice still echoed in my mind, low and clipped, like it had embedded itself in the back of my skull. I wanted to roll my eyes at how paranoid I’d become, how jumpy, how... different. But I couldn’t laugh it off. Not anymore. There was something out there—something powerful and wrong and... not normal. I couldn’t name it, couldn’t even fully picture it, but I could feel it, like a hand hovering just above my shoulder.

And I hated that I’d started to believe him.

Tonight, though, Monica had decided she was done watching me spiral. “We're going to the club, they have a Red party or something. I think you need this,” she said, firm and gentle in equal parts. “Ryan’s driving. We’ll be together the whole time. You’re safe, I promise.”

I wanted to argue, but the truth was... maybe she was right. I hadn’t told her about Ethan yet. She didn’t need to carry my worries, too.

So I agreed. Threw on a red dress, smudged some eyeliner, and told myself—just for tonight—I’d try to be the girl I used to be.

Even if it was a lie.

{endif}

{if Flirt_Ryan = 0}

Ryan and Monica arrived right on time. As I climbed into the car, Ryan gave me a polite smile and a quick glance. “Looking good, Thalia.”

“Thanks,” I said, settling into the backseat without meeting his eyes too long.

Monica turned in her seat, her smile bright and hopeful. “We’re going to have fun tonight. No excuses.”

The drive was light, easy. Ryan did his usual thing—making dumb jokes about club music, bad dancers, and how he was dragged into “babysitting duty.” Monica rolled her eyes and teased him back, and I let the banter wash over me like warm water.

At one point, Ryan asked—almost carefully—if I was feeling better lately. But before I could answer, Monica jumped in, steering things away from that topic entirely.

“Nope. Not tonight,” she said firmly, cutting off any talk about the alley before it could take root. “We’re here to have fun.”

{else}

Ryan and Monica arrived right on time. As I climbed into the car, Ryan gave me a once-over, his eyes lingering just a second longer than necessary. “Looking good, Thalia,” he said with a small, crooked smile.

I returned it without thinking. “Thanks.”

Monica turned in her seat, grinning at the both of us. “We’re going to have fun tonight. No excuses.”

As we drove, Ryan played the charming clown, tossing out jokes about club music, bad dancers, and how he planned to survive a night surrounded by “drunken red sequins.” He glanced at me in the rearview mirror more than once, always with that hint of amusement under the surface.

Monica eventually called him the “designated babysitter,” and he just laughed like it was a role he didn’t mind playing.

But when the conversation started veering toward the alley—the incident—Monica cut it short, sharp and final. “Nope. Not tonight,” she said, shaking her head with that no-nonsense tone. “We’re here to have fun.”

{endif}

The moment we step inside, the club’s atmosphere hits me like a wave. Pulsing bass thumps right through my chest, and red lights paint the walls and the crowd in flickering shades of crimson, making the dancefloor look like a hypnotic red sea of bodies.

Monica beams, clearly in her element. “This is what I’ve been on about! We’re gonna get the good vibes flowing tonight!” she shouts over the music, grabbing my arm. Ryan lingers just behind us, his gaze scanning the room like a protective older brother.

We make our way to the bar first, jostling through the crowd. I order something fruity and strong, hoping it’ll kick my brain into party mode and shake off the lingering weirdness I haven’t been able to let go of all day. Monica starts chatting with the bartender while Ryan stands close, his steady presence oddly reassuring.

For the first twenty minutes, it’s just us, sipping drinks and soaking in the electric energy of the place. Monica is animated, laughing at something Ryan says, and for a brief moment, I think maybe I can relax. Maybe tonight really can be normal.

But then I notice her.

At first, it’s just a flash of red on the dancefloor—a shade somehow brighter, deeper, more intentional than the rest. But as my eyes zero in, I see her clearly.

She’s... ridiculous. In the kind of way that makes you blink and wonder if you imagined her. A woman with long, flowing red hair that glows like liquid fire under the lights. Her dress clings to her like a second skin—a one-shoulder, body-hugging piece of shimmering red, the exact color of her lips and hair, like everything about her was designed to match this place, this moment.

She moves like she was born in this beat. Not dancing so much as weaving herself into the music—every sway and twist perfectly timed, like she’s the one leading the rhythm, not following it. She’s magnetic, in a way that almost doesn’t feel real. Her body curves and glides with this crazy blend of elegance and sensuality, like she’s some royalty slumming it at a nightclub but still the queen of everything around her.

People can’t stop watching her, of course. Men, women—doesn’t matter. Eyes are drawn to her like she’s the flame and we’re all just stupid moths.

And then she turns slightly and I catch her face.

She’s stunning, yes—but not in a way that feels accessible. High cheekbones, soft lips painted deep red, perfect little nose. Perfectly beautiful, but still unique, not a routine plastic starlet template. Her skin is flawless and somehow glowing without actually glowing, if that makes sense. And then there are her eyes—bright, piercing green, so intense it feels like they cut straight through the crowd.

“Wow,” Monica says beside me, following my gaze. “She’s... something, huh?”

“Yeah. Like a Bond girl and a goddess had a baby,” I mutter.

Ryan, standing with his back against the bar, notices her too. For a moment, his expression tightens, like he’s picking up on something the rest of us can’t. But then his lips curve into a faint smile, and he shakes his head. “She definitely knows how to get attention.”

We stand there for a while, watching her. She’s surrounded by people, yet completely untouchable.

Monica nudges me. “We could go dance too?”

I hesitate, my gaze still locked on the redhead. It feels like my idea—like I need to get closer. “Yeah,” I say, trying to sound casual. “Let’s go.”

Monica grins and drags me to the floor, Ryan following reluctantly. But I’m barely aware of them as we weave through the crowd. My focus narrows, each step bringing me closer to her.

Up close, it’s worse. Or better. Or... I don’t even know. Her red hair cascades down her back in soft, glossy waves, catching the light like a living flame.

She doesn’t move like a girl dancing at a club—she moves like a story being told. It’s graceful and feminine, powerful and poised, all at once. Too perfect. Too much.

“Jesus,” Monica says, leaning in so I can hear her over the music. “She’s like... a movie star or something.”

“Or something,” I reply, unable to tear my eyes away.

I tell myself it’s just curiosity, that I’m fascinated because she’s so different from anyone else here. But there’s something deeper at play—something I can’t explain. It’s not just that she’s beautiful; it’s the way she makes me feel. Like I’m standing barefoot on the edge of something I don’t understand. Drawn in, yet slightly terrified.

As if sensing my gaze, she looks up. Our eyes meet, and my breath catches. Her lips curve into the faintest smile—knowing, like she recognizes me or perhaps something in me I haven’t figured out yet.

I feel a hand on my shoulder, and Monica is grinning at me. “Come on, Thalia. Let’s actually dance.”

I **** myself to tear my eyes away and move with the music, but my body isn’t quite my own. My steps feel stiff, like I’m going through the motions while my attention keeps snapping back to her. She hasn’t stopped looking. Her green eyes still track my every move.

Something shifts in the air around us. It’s subtle, like the tiniest drop in temperature or a faint charge of static. The people closest to her seem even more mesmerized now, their movements slowing as if caught in her gravity.

“Thalia, let’s go back to the bar,” Monica says suddenly, pulling me toward her. “I’m thirsty.”

Didn't she want to dance moment ago?

“Just a minute,” I say, my voice barely audible over the music. I don’t even know why I say it—it’s not like I have any reason to stay. But my feet refuse to move and I keep staring back at her.

She smiles again, this time broader, and it feels like an invitation.

“Seriously,” Monica says, her tone sharper now. “Let’s go.”

But I can’t. I don’t want to leave, not yet.

And deep down, I'm not certain I should stay either.