Until the darkness fades

Aurelia's pov I was still fixing the thin strap when the floor manager’s voice cut through the backstage noise. “Sway your hips more, ladies. They didn’t pay to watch you stand still. Last set — go.” The girls ahead of me walked off the stage, some already counting cash, others just looking tired. I stepped forward. The heels were killing my feet already. Out there it was the usual mix. Men in open shirts and expensive watches. Some already drunk. Some pretending they weren’t. A few sat right against the stage, eyes glassy, mouths slightly open. Others stayed in the darker booths, watching quietly, drinks in hand. The air smelled like perfume, sweat and too much cologne. I walked out under the lights. I was wearing almost nothing — a tiny black G-string and matching pasties that barely covered anything. That was it. My hair was down, sticking a little to my back from the heat. I reached the front of the stage and wrapped my fingers around the cold pole. Then I started moving. Slow at first. Rolling my hips, letting the music settle into my body. I turned, arched, slid down the pole, then pulled myself back up, legs wrapping around the metal. The lights made everything look softer than it really was. I could feel their eyes on me — heavy, hungry, some almost respectful, most not. Someone whistled. Someone else shouted something filthy. A man near the edge leaned forward and dropped a few bills on the stage, eyes locked on my body. I kept dancing. Faking a smile. Didn’t look at any of them for too long. Just moved the way I was supposed to, letting the money fall around me. The song stretched longer than it felt, hips rolling, body turning, one hand sliding up the pole while the other trailed down my own stomach. Bills kept landing on the stage — some neatly, most just thrown. I didn’t look at the faces anymore. Just the money. When the track finally faded, I stepped down from the stage and started walking the floor the way we were supposed to. Still dancing, just slower, closer. Letting them see me properly. Hands reached out. One man slid a folded note into the side of my G-string, fingers brushing the skin of my hip a little longer than necessary. Another touched the back of my thigh as I passed. Someone near the booths held out money and didn’t let go until I leaned in close enough for him to look down my body. I took the cash without smiling and kept moving. By the time I made it back to the stage, my skin felt warm from all the eyes and the casual touches. I bent down, gathered the bills that had been thrown for me, and finally walked off. The lights felt too bright backstage. “You guys did okay today,” the manager said, counting something on his phone. A few of the girls smiled. One of them even laughed under her breath. I was just tired. The kind of tiredness that sat in my bones. All I wanted was to go home, shower, and not think about any of this until tomorrow night. I grabbed my bag from the chair and headed straight for the changing room. Inside, I pulled off the pasties and G-string, wiped my skin down quickly, and dragged on a pair of black trousers and a plain top. Nothing fancy. Just clothes that covered me. As much as I hated this job, I didn’t have a choice Liora still needed money for school and the debts our father left behind never really died with him. The kind of debts that didn’t care that he was gone. The kind that still sent people searching for us. I adjusted the bag on my shoulder and pushed through the back hallway toward the exit. The lights here were dim, the air colder. Most of the other girls had already left. My steps were quiet, controlled. Someone brushed past me. Not roughly, just close enough. I felt it before I even looked — that shift in the air, the way my body tightened on instinct. When I glanced sideways, a man in dark clothes was already watching me. His eyes didn’t slide away the way normal customers’ did. They stayed on me, steady and too focused, even after we’d passed each other. My hand curled around the strap of my bag. I didn’t stop walking, but every part of me had already gone sharp. I’d learned a long time ago what it meant when someone looked at me like that. People were still searching. They always had been. For the girls of a man who ran from the wrong people, who left bodies and unpaid debts behind him. I kept my face blank and my pace even, but I was already counting steps to the door, already checking how close my hand was to the knife I kept in the side of my bag. Being careful wasn’t paranoia. It was the only reason we were still alive. I pushed the back door open and stepped into the night. The air was colder than I expected. I pulled my bag higher on my shoulder and started walking, keys already between my fingers, knife shifted closer to the top of the bag where I could reach it fast. That was when I noticed them. Footsteps behind me. More than two. Matching my pace at first, then slowly closing in. A car door opened ahead of me and another man stepped out, blocking the sidewalk. I didn’t wait this time. I yanked my phone out, typed with shaking thumbs— Arabella– If I don’t call in 20 minutes, take the bag and go. Don’t wait. Get a ticket and leave to where Liora is, protect her. —hit send, shoved it away, and bolted. I cut left hard, then right, weaving between parked cars. Someone grabbed for my bag and only caught the strap. I spun, slammed my elbow back into his face, and heard the crunch of cartilage. He swore and stumbled. Another one reached for my hair. I dropped my weight, twisted, and drove my knee into his stomach hard enough to make him double over. I was running again before he hit the ground. My lungs were already burning. Footsteps thundered behind me — four, maybe five sets now. I vaulted a low railing, stumbled, caught myself, and kept going. For a few seconds I actually thought I might make it. The next street was busier. If I could just reach the lights— A body slammed into me from the side and took me down hard. Pavement scraped my palms and cheek. I rolled, kicked out blindly, and felt my heel connect with someone’s knee. He screamed. I scrambled up, knife already in my hand, and slashed the next one across the forearm when he grabbed for me. Blood hit the ground. I almost broke free. I was on my feet, moving, the open street only a few meters away— Then two of them hit me at once. One locked my arms. The other got a thick forearm around my neck and a hand over my mouth. I thrashed, stomped, tried to bite, tried to drive the knife backward into whatever I could reach. Someone wrenched my wrist so hard the knife clattered away. Another pair of hands grabbed my legs when I kicked. I still didn’t stop fighting. I twisted hard enough that the one covering my mouth lost his grip for a second. I dragged in a ragged breath and screamed, short and sharp, before the hand clamped back down heavier than before. A cold blade pressed against the side of my throat. “Enough Aurelia,” a voice growled near my ear. “You’re done.” I kept struggling even then, but there were too many of them and not enough air. The pressure on my mouth and nose, the arm cutting off my blood flow, the exhaustion — it all stacked too fast. The streetlights started to smear. My arms felt heavy. Then everything went black.