The sharp, chemical stench of bleach was the only thing keeping Clara Vance anchored to reality.
She scrubbed the gold-veined marble floor of the Obsidian Casino’s VIP lounge with a rhythmic, mechanical precision, her knuckles white around the handle of the bristled brush. It was 3:00 AM, the hour when the city’s worst monsters were supposed to be asleep, but in the syndicate-run underbelly, the night was always young.
"You missed a spot by the velvet ropes, Clara," a harsh whisper hissed from the doorway.
Clara paused, brushing a stray lock of dull brown hair out of her eyes. Her supervisor, a thick-set woman named Brenda with a perpetual scowl, stood with her arms crossed over her chest.
"I'll get it right now, Brenda," Clara said, her voice quiet and raspy from disuse. She didn't look up. Looking up meant making eye contact, and eye contact meant trouble.
"You'd better," Brenda snapped, stepping into the room and glancing nervously over her shoulder. "Management just called down. The new owner is doing a surprise walkthrough of the high-roller suites. If he sees a single smudge on this floor, he won’t just fire us. From what I hear about this guy, he’ll have us tossed into the river."
"I thought the walkthrough wasn't until next week," Clara murmured, dipping her brush back into the soapy, gray water.
"Well, billionaires don't exactly operate on our schedules, do they?" Brenda retorted, her voice pitching higher with anxiety. "Just finish the floor and get your cart out of here. He’s already on the elevator. The man is ruthless, Clara. They say he bought out the old casino boss and had him deported overnight. Don't let him see you."
"I'm almost done. Five minutes."
"You have two," Brenda ordered, turning on her heel and scurrying down the service corridor.
Clara’s heart did a familiar, erratic flutter in her chest. *Just finish the job,* she told herself, bearing down on the brush. *Get the paycheck. Save the cash. Disappear.*
That had been her singular goal for the past five years. To remain invisible. To scrape together enough blood-money in the form of minimum-wage paychecks to buy a fake passport and a one-way bus ticket to a town where no one knew her name. Where no one knew what she had done, or the price she had paid for it. The scars on her back, thick and ropelike under her oversized, drab gray uniform, pulled taut as she stretched to scrub the corner. A phantom ache flared, a reminder of the underground prison she had barely survived.
Suddenly, the heavy mahogany double doors at the far end of the VIP lounge swung open with a resounding crack.
Clara froze, her hands plunging into the icy, bleached water of her bucket. She shrank behind the sweeping velvet curtains near the bar, holding her breath.
A procession of men entered the room. They brought with them the scent of expensive cigars, gunpowder, and high-end cologne.
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