The main floor is packed, bodies writhing beneath strobing lights. I keep to the edges, working my way toward the bar. I need a drink. Need something to steady my hands, to quiet the thoughts ricocheting through my skull. Richard Blackwood's offer echoes in my head, persistent and unavoidable.
Your skills, when I need them.
The bar comes into view, and so does the shock of purple hair I've been looking for. Orchid's working tonight, mixing drinks with the fluid precision that's made her one of Rhapsody's most popular bartenders. Her purple wig catches the light, shifting between lavender and deep violet as she moves.
She spots me and her face breaks into a genuine smile—a rarity in this place where most expressions are calculated, performative. She finishes serving a customer and makes her way over to me.
"Well, look what the cat dragged in," she says, but there's warmth beneath the teasing. "Thought you'd abandoned us for good, med school."
"Not yet," I say, sliding onto a barstool. "Just... figuring things out."
Orchid studies me, her eyes sharp behind glittery purple eyeshadow. "You look like shit."
I laugh, the sound raw and unexpected. "Thanks. That's exactly what I needed to hear."
"I've never been one to sugarcoat." She starts mixing a drink without asking what I want. She knows. Has known since our first shift together, when we bonded over shitty customers and shared trauma. "So what's going on? Besides the obvious clusterfuck going on upstairs."
I watch her hands as she works, the practiced movements soothing somehow. "You heard about that?"
"Everyone's heard." She slides the finished drink toward me—vodka cranberry with a twist of lime. "Management's losing their minds. Security's on high alert." She nods toward the far corner where Ian stands, his attention focused on the crowd, his body coiled tight with tension. He hasn't seen me yet. "Your boy toy hasn't taken a break in eight hours."
I take a long sip, the alcohol burning a welcome path down my throat. "He's not my boy toy."
"No? What is he, then?"
I don't have an answer for that. Don't know what to call this thing between us—this fragile, dangerous connection that feels too big for any label I could give it.
"Complicated," I say finally.
Orchid snorts. "Honey, everything about this place is complicated."
She's not wrong. Rhapsody has always existed in shades of gray, in the spaces between legal and illegal, moral and immoral.It's what drew me here in the first place—the promise of good money with no questions asked. The perfect solution for a desperate med student drowning in debt.
But now those gray areas are expanding, darkening. Richard Blackwood's offer hanging over me like a storm cloud.
"Blackwood came to see me," I say, the words tumbling out before I can stop them.
Orchid freezes, her expression sharpening. She glances around quickly, then leans closer. "At your place?"
I nod, taking another sip of my drink. "This morning."
"Shit." She whistles low. "What did he want?"
I hesitate, uncertain how much to share. Orchid and I started at Rhapsody around the same time, bonded over late-night shifts and shared cigarettes on the back loading dock. She's the closest thing I have to a friend in this place. But Blackwood's offer feels dangerous to speak aloud.
"He offered me a contract," I say finally, keeping my voice low. "A different kind of work. Medical."
Understanding dawns in her eyes. "Ah. He wants a pet doctor."
"Basically." I trace the rim of my glass with my finger. "Said he'd pay off my student loans. Set me up for the future."
"That's a lot of money."
"Life-changing money," I confirm. The weight of it sits heavy on my chest—the possibility of freedom from debt, from the constant struggle to stay afloat. "But..."
"But you're wondering what you'll have to do to earn it," Orchid finishes for me.
I nod, relief washing through me that she understands without me having to explain. "Yeah."
