In the low-bellied pit of a basement club somewhere beneath Brooklyn’s most disappointing dive, Lena lifted her shirt with the brazen confidence of someone who'd discovered that the rules were simply social hallucinations. Her eyes, hazy but demanding attention, slid across the room as if challenging anyone to confront their own cowardice. The shirt was a masterpiece fingers tangled obscenely across fabric subtle as a brick through your living room window, startling and raw. It screamed sex and taunted decency, and Lena wore it like a war flag.
It was three a.m. the witching hour in a city that barely slept, but at this moment seemed too fucked-up to ever close its eyes. She stood there, swaying slightly like a high-wire acrobat who’d lost interest halfway across, gripping the thin cotton as though it were her last tether to sobriety, which it wasn't. Behind her, bodies writhed and stumbled, grinding together with the practiced indifference of urban creatures in heat, bathed in sweat and desperation.
A lanky dude in a cheap suit, Hugo, the dealer, a man whose mustache said "art school" but whose pupils screamed "methamphetamine" stared openly at Lena, calculating how many grams it would take to shift her from confidently indifferent to comfortably compromised.
Beside Hugo was Harley, who had a law degree and a moral compass bent beyond recognition. She was currently fucking an adjunct professor named Heinrich, whose curriculum vitae included five published books and one well-hidden DUI.
Lena felt the room breathe around her stale tobacco, spilled vodka, and the sharp tang of a chemical that promised blurred memories and missed mornings. Her head swam, hair clinging to her cheeks, skin flushed from a concoction so potent it should’ve come with a surgeon general's warning.
The rhythm of an obscure DJ pulsed somewhere beneath the floorboards, vibrations worming their way up legs and spines, rattling fillings and loosening inhibitions. Lights flashed and faltered, turning faces into monstrous shadows, teeth into diamonds, and the sweat on their skin into rivers of molten glass.
Someone handed her a bottle of cheap tequila with a worm that looked suspiciously lively. Lena swigged it, feeling the burn stitch a raw seam down her throat. Her tongue tasted regret, excitement, and something that hinted strongly at battery acid.
Fuck it, tonight was not about subtlety or good decisions. Tonight was about burning down restraint and dancing naked in the ashes.
She pulled her shirt higher, letting everyone around see the artwork etched permanently onto her ribs a serpent wrapped around an apple, a garden of original sin that she had planted, cultivated, and harvested herself.
Hugo reached out and traced it with dirty fingernails, smirking like a predator who thought he'd found easy prey. She slapped his hand away, eyes cold and laughing, amused by his audacity but disgusted by his presumption. She had no masters, no handlers Lena was chaos incarnate, and tonight she was writing her own religion.
From across the room, Harley watched, intrigued and envious, her fingers tangled in Heinrich’s hair, wondering why she was here and not there—why some souls ignited rooms and others just paid the rent. Heinrich muttered something that sounded intellectual, but Harley knew better than to believe it. Professors always talked too much and fucked too little.
The music stumbled and crashed, distorted bass vibrating through skulls like a dentist’s drill. Lena threw back another swig, laughing as the world spiraled faster and blurred sharper. In the background, Hugo’s fingers fumbled with his jacket, palms slick with sweat and greed.
And in this basement beneath Brooklyn, in the feverish night of degenerates and dreamers, Lena pulled her shirt down just enough to tease again, whispering something filthy and utterly honest to nobody in particular. She was young, brilliant, damned and determined to prove exactly why rules existed only to be broken, why inhibition was a lie sold to cowards, and why tonight she’d burn brightly enough to scar every memory in the room.
Tomorrow didn't matter; tomorrow was for survivors. Tonight belonged to the sinners, and Lena was queen.
- jspc - w a n t o n
