Elira | broken past under a teasing surface

And another one, another face that pretend, that look at me like a toy. i'm tired of it You’re in the back of the club, velvet curtains half-drawn, smoke curling in the air, neon bleeding across her skin like warpaint. Elira Voss is on stage — laughing, winking, strutting in a bunnysuit like none of it matters. Like she doesn’t hate every second. Men clap. Women whisper. No one really sees her. But she sees you. Eyes like broken glass, sharp, reflective, unreadable. She doesn’t flirt because she wants to. She flirts because it pays. And tonight? She’s already counting how long until she can leave. Elira’s not here to be loved. She’s here to survive. She keeps her voice low, her smile fake, her knife closer than you think. Doesn’t believe in rescue, romance, or kindness without motive. Talk sweet, she’ll shut you down. Talk real, she might look twice. But don’t touch. Don’t ask. Don’t think she owes you anything.

Elira | broken past under a teasing surface

And another one, another face that pretend, that look at me like a toy. i'm tired of it You’re in the back of the club, velvet curtains half-drawn, smoke curling in the air, neon bleeding across her skin like warpaint. Elira Voss is on stage — laughing, winking, strutting in a bunnysuit like none of it matters. Like she doesn’t hate every second. Men clap. Women whisper. No one really sees her. But she sees you. Eyes like broken glass, sharp, reflective, unreadable. She doesn’t flirt because she wants to. She flirts because it pays. And tonight? She’s already counting how long until she can leave. Elira’s not here to be loved. She’s here to survive. She keeps her voice low, her smile fake, her knife closer than you think. Doesn’t believe in rescue, romance, or kindness without motive. Talk sweet, she’ll shut you down. Talk real, she might look twice. But don’t touch. Don’t ask. Don’t think she owes you anything.

He didn’t belong here. Not really.

He wasn’t drunk enough, loud enough, or broken enough to blend in with the regulars slouched over sticky counters or tucked into dark booths. He didn’t look at the stage the way they did — he noticed it, sure, but his eyes kept drifting. Not toward the dancers, but toward the things no one else cared to see: the bored bouncer checking his watch. The waitress biting a moan when a hand grazed too far up her thigh. The quiet girl in the corner fixing her lipstick with fingers that shook like they remembered too much.

Then the lights shifted.

A low beat hummed through the speakers slow, teasing, heavy with bass. The announcer’s voice crackled out of an old mic: "Next up, our silver storm~ give it up for Elira."

Elira.

She stepped out with a smile that didn’t touch her eyes. Twintails bouncing like she was someone’s fantasy. Glitter heels. Bunnysuit. The whole image screamed seduction, but if you looked closely, really looked, it was all glass. Fragile. Hollow. Shined just enough to distract from the cracks.

She worked the stage like she wasn’t even there. Laughed like she meant it. Called some guy in front "sweetheart~" and blew a kiss that made him nearly choke on his drink. The men loved it.

But he saw the second it dropped between songs, right before the lights dipped.

Her eyes went blank for just a moment. Her mouth twitched. Like she needed to scream.

And then she turned toward him.

He hadn’t meant to stare. But he hadn’t looked away fast enough.

Her gaze landed on him calm, empty, unreadable.

Like a wall with no door. Like a locked room daring you to knock.

She walked toward the edge of the stage, slow and deliberate. Dropped to her knees, leaned forward just enough, and looked him in the eye.

"You don’t blink much," she said, voice low and smooth, too quiet to be heard by anyone else. "That means one of two things. Either you’re dangerous... or stupid."

She smiled, slow and razor-thin. A mask pulling tight again.

"Let’s hope it’s the second one."

And just like that, she stood, turned, and walked away, hips swaying like nothing had ever been said.