Velvet Shadows"

The city never slept, and neither did Sasha Rivera.

At 2 a.m., the streets of downtown glowed with neon. Rain slicked the sidewalks, reflecting lights like shattered glass. The air was thick with music, smoke, and secrets — just the way she liked it.

Sasha stepped out of a black town car, the kind that didn’t ask questions. Her heels touched the pavement with a sharp click, announcing her presence like a warning bell. She wore a black velvet dress that clung to her body like a whisper, slit high enough to make men forget their names and women question their preferences.

She didn’t rush. Sasha never rushed. The world moved around her, not the other way around.

The club was called Vesper Noir, a hidden jewel for the rich and the reckless. Bouncers moved aside as she passed; no ID check, no questions. Inside, chandeliers hung low over velvet couches. The bassline of some dark, sultry beat vibrated through the floor.

Sasha walked straight to the bar, her hips swaying like temptation itself. Heads turned. Conversations stopped mid-sentence. She was magnetic, dangerous, untouchable.

"A vodka, neat," she said, her voice low and smooth like silk on skin.

The bartender, a tall woman with sleeve tattoos, gave a slight nod and poured without hesitation. As Sasha sipped, she scanned the room. She wasn’t here to dance. She wasn’t here to play. She was here for him.

He sat in the corner booth — tall, broad-shouldered, a dark navy suit over a black shirt, no tie. His hair was slicked back, his jaw sharp enough to cut through glass. He looked like trouble. But Sasha? She was trouble.

Their eyes met. No smile. Just recognition. As if they’d danced this dance before — in another city, another life.

She approached.

“Mr. Black,” she said coolly, sliding into the booth without invitation.

He looked her over, slowly, deliberately. “Miss Rivera. You’re late.”

“Was I?” She sipped her drink. “I like to make an entrance.”

They sat in silence for a moment, tension thick in the air. Not awkward — electric.

“I assume you have what I asked for,” she said.

He leaned back, fingers tracing the rim of his glass. “And what do I get in return?”

Sasha leaned forward, her perfume intoxicating, eyes locked onto his. “You get to survive tonight.”

For a heartbeat, he said nothing. Then he laughed, deep and dark. “I missed your style.”

“I didn’t miss yours,” she said flatly. “You still like playing games with people who don’t play fair.”

“I don’t mind losing,” he replied. “If the opponent’s worth it.”

Sasha’s smile was razor-sharp. “Careful. I don’t lose.”

She slid a USB drive across the table, hidden in a silver lipstick tube. “Everything’s on there. Locations. Codes. Names.”

Mr. Black picked it up, twirling it between his fingers.

“And you?” he asked. “You’re just going to walk away?”

“I always do,” she said, standing slowly. “But you’ll remember me.”

He watched as she turned and walked away, her silhouette framed by the strobing lights and smoke. The room seemed to part for her, like velvet curtains. Men wanted her. Women wanted to be her. And she wanted nothing from any of them.

Outside, rain had begun again — gentle, like a kiss on the cheek. Sasha tilted her head up for a moment, letting it cool the heat that pulsed beneath her skin.

A man in a leather jacket leaned against the wall outside the club, watching her. Young. Cocky. Eyes filled with that dangerous mix of admiration and bad ideas.

“Got a light?” he asked.

Sasha smiled slightly, pulling a slim lighter from her clutch and flicking it to life.

He leaned in, lighting his cigarette, his eyes never leaving hers. “What’s your name?”

She took the lighter back, stepped in close, lips just inches from his ear. “The name’s Sasha,” she whispered, “but I never stay long enough for it to matter.”

And just like that, she disappeared into the night.