The Savior’s Trap

Chapter Nine – The Stage

The bass shook the walls of Elysium like a second heartbeat. Every surface pulsed with sound—mirrors, velvet drapes, chrome rails polished to a feverish shine. Red light spilled in thick waves across the stage, then fractured into a storm of white strobes. The crowd pressed forward, an ocean of perfume, sequins, and laughter sharpened by alcohol.

Vincent stepped into the light.

The roar was instant.

He wore only half a uniform: heavy boots, dark pants slung low, suspenders framing his bare torso, a firefighter’s helmet swinging from one hand, a plastic axe from the other. Theatrics, but no one cared that it wasn’t real. They screamed as if the city itself were burning and only he could save them.

The music thumped, relentless. He walked with deliberate slowness, rolling his hips to the rhythm, every stride calculated. He dropped the helmet onto the edge of the stage; it spun once on its rim before clattering still. The axe handle dragged across his chest in a slow arc, a parody of danger and rescue all at once.

Women leaned so close their hair brushed the stage. Bills fluttered like green confetti in the air, caught in the lights before drifting down around his boots. One bachelorette in a plastic tiara pushed a twenty under his waistband, her hand trembling as though she’d touched fire. He allowed the contact a heartbeat longer than necessary, then stepped back, flashing her a grin that promised everything and nothing. She shrieked, clutching her friends’ arms like she’d been blessed.

The suspenders snapped loose under his thumbs. He let the tension build, hips circling slow, head tilted back so the spotlights carved shadows along his jaw. When the fabric peeled away, revealing the gleam of his torso, the sound from the crowd was nearly physical. Screams ricocheted from wall to wall. Hands reached upward, fingers spread wide, as if they could catch him like a stage diver.

He tossed the shirt into the crowd. It vanished instantly, torn to pieces between greedy fingers.

The song shifted. A recorded storm filled the speakers—thunder, the hiss of rain. Jets above the stage released a spray of mist. Water cascaded over him, clinging to his chest, sliding down the cut lines of his abdomen. He bent forward, letting it drip from his hair, then rose again, spinning the axe once before tossing it aside.

Every move was a language he spoke fluently. The slow circle of his hips. The pause before he gripped his waistband. The sudden, sharp thrust of his shoulders to the beat. He knew exactly how long to hold each note of anticipation, how far to push before retreating.

They screamed his name—some real, some invented: Vincent! Fireman! God! Baby! It didn’t matter what they called him. Their voices were proof that he had them.

His heartbeat stayed steady. He wasn’t nervous. He wasn’t euphoric. He was in control. They thought they consumed him, but in truth, he consumed them. Every gasp, every bill tossed, every wide-eyed gaze was fuel for his superiority. He orchestrated them, the way a conductor manipulates an orchestra—one flick of the wrist, one smirk, one pause, and they surged exactly when he demanded it.

At the crescendo, he dragged both hands down his soaked torso, water streaming after them like silver ribbons. He tilted his head back, arms wide, and the lights cut across his chest so every muscle shone like carved marble.

The song ended with a thunderclap. He stood there for a beat, water dripping from his chin, before he turned and strode offstage. The crowd screamed after him, hungry for more, their voices chasing him into the wings.

Backstage smelled different—sweat without perfume, deodorant, cheap beer, the tang of metallic water from the misting jets. The space was narrow, crowded with racks of costumes: firefighter pants, police uniforms, army fatigues, doctor coats. As if masculinity could be stored in polyester and sequins.

“Hell of a set,” a voice called.

Vincent looked up. Jerry Williams leaned against the wall, still half-dressed in his own costume—a police uniform shirt unbuttoned to the navel, shiny cuffs dangling from his belt. His skin glistened, not from rain machines but from exertion. Jerry had been here nearly as long as Vincent, one of the few who could hold the crowd just as easily.

Vincent grabbed a towel, running it over his hair, down his chest. “Routine’s getting stale.”

Jerry smirked. “Routine pays better than most jobs. Look.” He fanned out a wad of damp bills. “That’s three hundred for fifteen minutes. You know anyone else who earns that shaking their ass?”

Vincent chuckled, draping the towel around his neck. “Women love a man in uniform. Doesn’t matter which—fire, police, soldier, doctor. It’s the fantasy that sells. We just sell it better than the rest.”

Jerry’s grin faded into something closer to curiosity. He studied Vincent’s face a moment longer. “You’ve got that look again.”

“What look?” Vincent asked, pretending not to know.

“The sparks. The thing in your eyes when something outside this club is feeding you.” Jerry folded the bills and shoved them in his boot. “Last time you had that look, it ended with someone crying in the parking lot.”

Vincent laughed, low, shaking his head. “You exaggerate.”

Jerry tilted his head. “Do I?”

Vincent leaned against the wall, folding his arms. For a moment his smirk softened into something sharper, darker. “Maybe I’ve found a new project.”

Jerry raised his brows. “Project?”

“Victim. Target. Call it what you want.” Vincent’s smile curved again, equal parts joke and confession. “Someone to keep me entertained.”

Jerry exhaled, long and skeptical. “You’re playing with fire. Again.”

Vincent’s grin sharpened. “Good thing I’m dressed for it.”

The towel slipped from his shoulders, falling to the floor with a wet slap. He bent to pick it up, his laughter low, carrying just enough edge to make Jerry glance at him twice.

For Vincent, the show was over. But the performance—that was only just beginning.