She Rogue

1. Atria

Here we go again—another day, another survival challenge.

Survival has been my constant companion for over two decades, ever since I became a rogue. Twenty years of running, hiding, and scraping by. Some days, I can’t believe I’ve lasted this long.

I’ve thought about ending it all more times than I care to admit. Death seems like it might be a kinder fate than this relentless existence. But then, I picture myself meeting the Moon Goddess, and the rage boils up inside me like wildfire. The thought of standing in her presence, after everything I’ve endured, makes me want to rip her ethereal throat out. What kind of deity condemns someone to this life? Was I some kind of monster in a past life? A villain who deserved this punishment?

It’s maddening to think about, so I try not to dwell on it. Better to focus on the task at hand—this job interview—or, more accurately, another shot in the dark.

I don’t think much of myself. Some shifters have called me pretty, even striking, but I don’t see it. Just a rogue trying to scrape by, with nothing to my name but a reputation that makes me a pariah. Packs don’t trust rogues, and they’re not wrong. Most rogues live up to the stereotype—thieves, mercenaries, and worse. As a result, my work options are limited to the shadiest corners of society.

Tonight’s opportunity doesn’t feel much different. As I step into the club, a long, dimly lit corridor stretches out before me. The overhead lights cast a red glow that flickers like dying embers, bathing the worn floor in an eerie hue. The smell of tobacco, alcohol, and something distinctly herbal hits me like a wave, clinging to the stale air.

This place screams trouble.

I walk down the hall, my boots echoing softly against the floorboards, and push open a heavy door at the end. Inside, a tall, statuesque woman greets me. Her high ponytail is a sharp shade of platinum blonde, and her glossy lips look suspiciously overdone.

She sizes me up with a glance, her painted nails tapping lightly on the edge of a small notepad.

“How may I help you, darling?” Her voice is smooth, almost sweet, but there’s an edge to it.

“I have an appointment with Gabriel,” I say, keeping my tone flat.

“Job interview?” she asks, her gaze narrowing slightly.

“Yeah. Four-thirty,” I reply, offering no more information than necessary.

She scrolls through her notes, her painted lips curving into a slight smile. “Your name, darling?”

“Atria.”

“Ah, there you are,” she coos, before picking up a small black radio. “Mark, Gab’s four-thirty is here. Escort her, please.” She turns back to me, her smile widening. “Just a moment. Interesting name you’ve got there—Atria. Is it yours?”

I blink, caught off guard. “Um, yes? What do you mean?”

“Oh, it’s just that most of us girls here go by nicknames. You know, adds a little mystery, a little protection. You might want to consider one—something like Natasha. Mysterious. Russian, maybe?” She giggles, the sound both warm and calculated.

“Thanks for the advice. What’s your name?”

“Bamby,” she says, flashing me a dazzling smile that somehow seems genuine. “Nice to meet you. I don’t know if you’ll like it here, but Gabs will. I’m pretty sure you’ll get the job. Just don’t let him be an ass to you. First impressions count.”

Before I can respond, a hulking figure appears at the doorway. He’s a mountain of a man, towering close to two meters, with broad shoulders, a shaved head, and an outfit straight out of a biker bar—a leather jacket, worn jeans, and boots that could probably crush steel.

“Hello, pumpkin. Come with me.” He smirks and jerks his head toward the back.

I follow him, trying not to stare, but I can’t help noticing the way his jeans hug his muscular frame. The giant knows he’s got an audience.

“Good luck!” Bamby calls after me, her smile lingering in my mind as the door swings shut.

The club opens up before me, revealing a world far more vibrant than I’d anticipated. The stage is alive with dancers, their movements fluid and hypnotic as they glide around shining silver poles. The crowd—a mix of men and women—sits at scattered tables, drinks in hand, their laughter mingling with the faint hum of bass-heavy music.

The air is thick with smoke and the tang of spilled alcohol, but the place itself is oddly stunning. Black and red dominate the décor, the walls adorned with shimmering accents that catch the light. A massive bar stretches along one side, its surface made of cracked mirrors that gleam under the glow of neon signs.

Curiosity gets the better of me as I glance toward several closed-off rooms at the back. What’s behind those doors? VIP lounges? Or something far darker?

Lost in thought, I nearly walk straight into my escort’s broad back when he stops abruptly.

“Eyes up, pumpkin,” he says, grinning as he looks over his shoulder. “You alright there?”

“Yeah,” I mutter, trying to hide my embarrassment. “This place is… big.”

“You’ll get used to it,” he says with a smirk.

“What makes you think I’ll be sticking around?”

“Oh, you will.” His tone is confident, almost cocky. “You look like Gabs’ kind of girl.” He winks, turning back toward the hallway.

I suppress a shiver. His words feel more like a warning than a compliment.

Finally, we stop at a door—a sleek black panel with a silver handle. Mark presses a buzzer, and the door clicks open. He gestures for me to step inside.

I take a deep breath. My instincts scream at me to turn around, to run, but I’ve never been good at listening to my gut.

Here goes nothing.