Welcome to the job
The final note of Caitlyn’s performance echoed into the rafters as the crowd’s roar of approval seemed to swell, a tsunami of energy that sent a surge of adrenaline through her. She tossed her head back, letting her long hair whip around her shoulders, flashing a grin that could light up a room. The crowd screamed. It was that intoxicating high she always chased, the moment she lived for—until the lights dimmed, and reality came rushing in.
Her heels clicked sharply against the stage as she made her way off, blinking against the sudden, harsh lighting of the backstage area. She ripped off her microphone as soon as she was clear of the curtain, dropping it into the hands of a waiting stagehand.
“Man, my feet are going to be killing me in five minutes,” she muttered, the familiar ache of her back reminding her that high heels and her body weren’t exactly best friends. The day had been a marathon of rehearsals, soundchecks, and now this—another pocket show. Every night, the cycle repeated. Glamour on the outside, exhaustion on the inside.
Lux was already there, grinning like she was just waiting to pounce. As Caitlyn staggered toward her, Lux held out a water bottle with a dramatic flair. "You good?" she asked, eyes dancing with the kind of energy only someone who had seen Caitlyn at her highest and lowest could understand.
“Just kill me now,” Caitlyn groaned, bending slightly to pull off her heels, wincing as her feet hit the cool floor. “I swear, these things are going to be the death of me. I need a new career where I can wear sneakers.”
Lux laughed, her voice low and amused. “Only you would manage to look like a goddess in spiked heels while also complaining about back pain. It’s a gift.”
Caitlyn replied, straightening up and popping her neck with a satisfied groan. “I’m gonna need an ice pack by the end of the night. I'm serious”
Lux rolled her eyes but handed Caitlyn the water bottle like it was a lifeline. “Okay, diva, let’s get you to the back room before you do more damage. No more backstage shenanigans until your body starts moving like a normal human being again.”
Caitlyn took a swig of water, her exhaustion temporarily forgotten as she let the cool liquid soothe her throat. She could hear the faint echoes of the crowd’s cheers drifting backstage, but she didn’t feel like basking in it anymore. The show was over.
As they walked through the maze of backstage corridors, her eyes scanned the familiar sights—crew members rushing around, makeup artists packing up their gear, stagehands hustling to break down the set. Everything was moving in a practiced, almost mechanical rhythm. Everyone was busy cleaning up after the magic, leaving behind nothing but the remnants of the night’s performance.
“Well, don’t expect me to walk a straight line for a week,” Caitlyn said, nodding at her reflection in a mirror as she passed. “I think the sparkle's already worn off.”
Lux snorted. “Oh, it’s definitely worn off. I can see the sparkle retreating in real-time. You’re just a very tired, glitter-covered human now.”
Caitlyn nudged her with a smirk, then leaned into Lux, giving her a playfully exaggerated pout. “You know what? I might just become an accountant or a baker or something. Something low-stress and heel-free. Maybe I’ll start a food truck.”
“Yeah, and you’d still find a way to make it look fabulous. I’ve seen you make even grocery store aisles look like a runway,” Lux teased, her grin broadening.
They reached the door to the private dressing room, the one with the simple sign reading “Caitlyn.” Lux pushed it open, gesturing for Caitlyn to go ahead. The space was small, cluttered with the detritus of her life on the road—piles of clothes, shoes that had been discarded in haste, and a single chair that seemed to hold all of Caitlyn’s unspoken exhaustion.
She glanced at the chair for a moment before sighing, slipping out of her sequined outfit. The bodysuit was a masterpiece in its own right—shiny, tight, and meant to highlight every curve as it shimmered in the spotlight. But now, under the harsh fluorescent lights of the room, it just felt like a prison. It was too tight, too much. The glittery embellishments stuck to her skin, and for a brief moment, she felt like a trapped bird—beautiful, but caged.
Lux casually grabbed a towel and tossed it over her shoulder. “I’ll give you some space, but you know you’ve got a half-hour max before I’m chasing you out. We’ve got a car waiting and Mel is grumpy today.”
“I’m not doing the ‘shower’ thing tonight, I’m just... just give me a second.” Caitlyn shot her a pointed look. “ Can you tell Mel I’m going straight to the hotel after this. Just need to get out of this outfit. Not even going to bother with the whole ‘glamour ritual’ tonight.”
Lux shrugged. “Fair enough. Just try not to pass out in the room, yeah?”
Caitlyn didn’t respond. She didn’t need to. Instead, she started pulling at the seams of her costume, wincing when she realized the makeup had smeared along her neck. It was a rough kind of beauty, and she didn’t have the energy for perfection anymore. There were no fans in the room, no cameras flashing, just her and the quiet hum of the backstage world still moving on without her.
After a few minutes, she stepped back into her street clothes—sweatpants and a loose blue hoodie that instantly made her feel like herself again. The transformation from performance mode to Caitlyn the person, not Caitlyn the brand, was jarring. A little disorienting. But it was always like this after the show. A fleeting moment of normalcy before the storm of expectations kicked in again.
When she finally emerged, she found Mel waiting for her just outside the dressing room, arms crossed, looking like she was about to deliver a lecture. “You’re already late,” Mel said dryly, but her eyes softened when they landed on Caitlyn. “How’s the back?”
“Terrible,” Caitlyn replied with a grin that didn’t reach her eyes. “But I’m alive, so there’s that.”
Lux chimed in from the hallway. “She tried to escape without an ice pack yesterday. Do not let her get away with it, Mel. She’ll be on the floor in two hours.”
Mel gave Lux a pointed look, then turned back to Caitlyn. “I’ve already made arrangements for that. But we need to get moving. The car’s ready. And you’re not talking your way out of this one tonight.”
Caitlyn glanced around the empty hallway, feeling the weight of the night creeping back in. “Yeah, okay. Let’s just get this over with.” She wasn’t complaining—not really—but the fatigue was real, and her mind was already slipping into that space between exhaustion and sleep.
As they made their way to the car, Caitlyn couldn’t help but lean back against the seat, closing her eyes. The quiet hum of the car’s engine was the only sound, and it felt like a reprieve, a small island of peace in a sea of chaos.
“I’ll make it through,” she muttered to herself, as much to reassure herself as anyone else. But deep down, she knew the weight of it all was more than just a tired back and a long night—it was everything that had brought her to this point. And somehow, she'd keep moving forward.
The car moved through the quiet streets, the hum of the engine creating a soft rhythm in the background. Caitlyn’s body, exhausted from the show, slouched against the backseat, the ice pack pressed against her sore lower back. The discomfort didn’t seem to ease, no matter how much she shifted. She groaned and stretched, trying to find a more comfortable position.
"I swear, if I ever wear heels like that again, someone’s getting fired,” she muttered under her breath, shifting the ice pack slightly.
"Let’s not start planning any HR firings yet," Mel said, her voice sharp but warm with a hint of humor. She was sitting in the front passenger seat, flipping through Caitlyn’s schedule on her tablet. The screen lit up her face, and Caitlyn could see the tiny furrows on her manager’s brow as she reviewed the details.
“I’m just saying, I’ve been told to endure for the fans by the styling team, but I think we need a more realistic ‘fan experience’—one where I’m not on the verge of a permanent limp,” Caitlyn teased, shifting in the seat, trying to find a better position for her sore back.
Mel just chuckled, but Caitlyn could see the familiar concern in her eyes as she glanced over her shoulder. “Okay, okay, let’s take a breath here. I’ll talk to the designers about getting you a new pair of shoes for the next set of performances.”
"Do you have any idea how many people have told me that over the years?" Caitlyn’s tone was playful but tired. “I don’t think there's a magical shoe that exists that won't have me screaming by the third song.”
Mel sighed, giving her a pointed look. “Well, if anyone can pull off the glamorous but actually functional shoe, it’s you.”
“Wouldn’t be the first time I’ve turned an old potato sack into a fashion statement,” Caitlyn replied with a wink, then winced as she shifted again. “Okay, I'm gonna need a walking stick tomorrow. Forget the shoes. Just a cane to go with the whole diva aesthetic.”
“You’re ridiculous,” Mel said, though there was a soft chuckle in her voice as she turned back to the tablet. “Alright, let’s get this over with before you complain so much I can’t focus. Tomorrow’s meetings start early— that radio interview with the reporter you hate at nine AM, then a lunch with the new PR tour team. You’ll be doing a press round right after. After that, you've got another rehearsal—"
“Ugh, I’m already exhausted just listening to you,” Caitlyn groaned, dramatically collapsing back into her seat. "Isn't there a part of my day where I just get to sleep in and eat chips all day? Because that’s the vibe I’m after right now."
Mel rolled her eyes, but Caitlyn caught the subtle smile tugging at her lips. “You wish,anyway you’ll be doing a press round right after. After that, you’ve got another rehearsal—"
“Wait, press round?” Caitlyn cut in, lifting her head slightly from the ice pack, which now felt like it was doing absolutely nothing. “I thought I was off the clock tomorrow.”
“Well, you’re never ‘off the clock,’ Cait,” Mel said dryly, tapping a few things on her tablet. “You’re still Caitlyn Kiramman, and the press knows it. So it’s just a few things here and there. Then, a quick dinner with the label people. No big deal you'll be back in the hotel before 11pm I promise.”
Caitlyn groaned dramatically. “Of course, ‘no big deal.’ How could I forget?” She shifts in her seat one more and then blurt out “I’m seriously going to need a cane to walk around tomorrow if this back pain keeps up,” Caitlyn muttered. “This is what I get for trying to impress a crowd that already loves me.”
“Uh-huh. Totally your fault. The heels had absolutely nothing to do with it, right?” Mel smirked as she swiped through the schedule, clearly amused.
“Don’t even start. I know you warned me,” Caitlyn shot back, but there was a teasing light in her eyes.
Mel just shook her head. “Next time, I’m personally picking out your wardrobe. Maybe we can design shoes that work with your diva persona but also don't require you to lose all feeling in your feet.”
"Honestly, Mel, just give me slippers and a robe, and we’re good. If I could show up to these things in PJs, I would," Caitlyn quipped, leaning back and resting her head on the seat. "Okay, continue with your list. I’m already mentally checked out."
Mel didn’t respond to that—she’d learned over the years that Caitlyn’s sarcastic comments were more of a defense mechanism than anything. Instead, she kept on with the schedule rundown, detailing the next few days, but as she did, something caught her attention. She glanced at the rearview mirror, brow furrowing as her eyes narrowed at a black SUV trailing them a little too closely.
Caitlyn, still half-listening, continued her complaints about the day’s packed schedule. “Ugh, if one more person tells me to smile and be 'on brand,' on television I might scream. Do I look like a circus clown?”
But Mel’s attention was no longer on the schedule, or Caitlyn’s joking complaints. Her gaze was locked onto the rearview mirror now, studying the black SUV that had been behind them for the past couple of blocks.
Caitlyn’s voice trailed off as she noticed the sudden shift in Mel’s demeanor. “Mel? What’s up?”
Mel didn’t answer right away, her fingers tapping against the tablet, then against the armrest as her focus shifted entirely to the car behind them. “That car behind us,” she muttered, her voice low, “has been following us for a while now.”
“Ah, come on. You're gonna start this shit again aren't you?, It’s just some random car mel” Caitlyn didn’t seem too concerned, trying to brush it off as another one of the countless unimportant things that came with the job.
Mel’s eyes didn’t leave the rearview mirror as she assessed the situation, her face hardening. “No, it’s not just a random car, it has been following us. And it’s definitely not our team. Something’s off.” She reached for her phone, unlocking it quickly.
Caitlyn raised an eyebrow, unconvinced. “You’re seriously making a big deal out of a tail? We’re probably just taking the same route. Nothing new here, Mel,please I just wanna lay down tonight.”
Mel’s jaw tightened. She shifted in her seat to face Caitlyn, giving her a quick, cutting look that made Caitlyn freeze. The air in the car seemed to thicken for a moment. “Caitlyn,” she said, her voice sharp, “you’re not hearing me. This isn’t some coincidence. Just—please trust me on this, will you.”
Caitlyn sat up straighter, now taking Mel’s concern more seriously. “Alright, alright. What do you want to do?”
“Driver, take a few quick turns up ahead to the railroad,” Mel said into the intercom. “Try to shake that SUV off. Don’t go straight to the hotel.”
The driver’s voice crackled back through the intercom. “Understood. Taking the next right.”
Mel didn’t hesitate as she quickly entered a few more numbers into her phone, tapping the screen with precision. “Give me a second,” she murmured as her fingers flew across the keys. Caitlyn watched her, feeling the shift in energy. This wasn’t like Mel at all. She was calm, but there was something dangerous lurking underneath her usual cool demeanor. “I’m sending the plate number to the police now.”
"Seriously? This is overkill. It’s just a coincidence,” Caitlyn said, though she could feel her unease starting to creep in. “I mean, it’s just a car.”
Mel’s eyes flashed with frustration. “A black SUV that’s been following us for the past ten minutes? Do you seriously think I’m just overreacting? just sit tight and trust me.”
Caitlyn opened her mouth to argue, but Mel’s hard gaze silenced her. There was no room for defiance right now. She looked out the window, noticing the SUV a little too clearly now, its headlights flickering in her peripheral vision.
“Fine,” Caitlyn muttered, resting back into her seat, her earlier sarcasm gone. “But I’m still not happy about this.”
Mel didn’t say anything more, just focused on her phone as she finished texting security. She gave the driver more instructions and then hung up the phone with a finality that left no room for debate.
They turned down another street, weaving through the familiar city streets, but the SUV continued to follow, just far enough to remain out of sight but close enough to feel menacing.
Mel kept her calm façade, but Caitlyn could see the underlying tension in her, the protective instinct that was always there but rarely so urgent. “How much longer?” Caitlyn asked, her voice quieter now.
“Just a few more minutes,” Mel replied. “Stay sharp.”
And Caitlyn did, her mind now on the situation. Whatever was going on, she had a bad feeling that it wasn’t just a random tail. But for now, she had to trust Mel.
Caitlyn felt the familiar sting in her back as she walked into the hotel suite, her heels clicking against the polished floor. She let out a quiet groan, trying to stretch out her muscles, but the pain was still there. Her shoulders ached, and her feet felt like they might fall off after the performance. It was a relief to finally be back.
The door closed behind her with a soft thud.
"I’m just going to shower," Caitlyn said, glancing at Mel, who had her phone in hand, already absorbed in a call. "I’ll be out in a bit."
Mel barely looked up. "Mmhm. Don’t take too long, though. We need to talk about the script for the interview tomorrow." She didn’t sound particularly concerned, but there was an edge to her voice Caitlyn couldn’t ignore.
Caitlyn nodded, too tired to push back. She stripped off her stage clothes quickly, the remnants of the performance still fresh on her skin, and stepped into the bathroom, letting the hot water burn away the sweat and grime. The pain in her back didn't go away, but the soothing warmth helped. She didn’t know how long she stayed under the spray, just lost in the moment of relief.
Caitlyn walked out of the bathroom, towel still around her, a sharp line of water still dripping down her skin. She was halfway through a sigh, exhausted from the show and the mess of the night, when she saw Mel standing near the window. The minute she stepped into the room, she could feel the shift in the air. Mel’s stance was rigid, hands on her hips, staring out at the dark cityscape. It was a far cry from the calm, collected manager she was used to.
“Mel?” Caitlyn’s voice wavered slightly, unsure of what was about to happen.
Mel didn’t even look at her at first. She just spoke, voice clipped, like every word was carefully measured. “I’m canceling all your appointments tomorrow. We’re meeting with the security team.”
Caitlyn froze, eyes narrowing. “What? Why? What the hell, Mel?” She stepped over to the dresser, the wet towel still hanging off her shoulders. Her fingers fumbled with the edges of it, distracted by Mel’s tone. “What’s going on?”
Mel turned, finally locking eyes with her. The look in her eyes wasn’t the usual controlled professionalism. It was pure frustration, anger laced with worry. “You think you’re fucking fine all the time thats whats going on. You think everything’s okay, but it’s not. We’ve got a problem. That car that was following us tonight, the one you told me to not worry about? It was not just some fan or someone going the same fukcing way. It was a goddamn stalker, Caitlyn.”
Caitlyn blinked, a tight knot forming in her stomach. “Wait… what? A stalker? What are you concerned about then?” Her heart started to race, but she tried to keep her voice steady. “We still have security, Mel.They’re always there. It’s fine,it's not the first time anyway.” She laughed away
Mel took two steps forward, the tension in her body obvious now. “Yeah? Is that what you think?” Her voice grew louder, like she was finally done holding back. “The guy had a fucking gun, Caitlyn. A gun! We’re not talking about some obsessed fan trying to get an autograph like the last time. This guy was dangerous Cait he's been arrested before.”
Caitlyn’s stomach dropped, and she felt the air leave her lungs for a second. “A gun? What the hell do you mean, a gun?” She shook her head, still trying to process it. “I'm safe anyway, you've handled, I’m fine, Mel. It’s not like we didn’t lose him at the crossing. What’s the big deal, why are you so mad about?”
“The big deal,” Mel spat, moving closer now, her voice barely controlled, “is that you don’t even get how dangerous this shit is. If we didn’t lose him at the railroad, who knows what could’ve happened.” She threw her hands up in the air, exasperated. “He had a gun, Caitlyn. The fucking police called me just a few minutes ago saying that when they intercepted him and look through his file they found out hes been arrested before for stalking and endangering another woman, theyre now investigating him further and honesty i dont even need to know what theyre going to find out to know to a fault that you were in fucking danger if he had gotten close enough to hurt you. And you’re sitting here telling me it’s no big deal?”
Caitlyn took a step back, a chill running down her spine at the thought, but she still couldn’t completely accept it. She crossed her arms, trying to push down the uneasy feeling crawling up her throat. “I’m not a damn target, Mel. I’m not a child. I can handle myself and we have a full security team,there's nothing to worry about,I'm fine.”
Mel’s eyes flashed with frustration, and she took a deep breath, willing herself to calm down. “Handling yourself won’t stop some psycho with a gun. If you can’t see that, I don't even know what to do.”
Caitlyn’s jaw clenched at the sharpness in Mel’s words, but her pulse was still racing. “You’re overreacting, this is what you're doing. We’ve got security. This is what they’re paid to do.”
Mel didn’t flinch. She wasn’t backing down. “It’s not enough. If you think that’s gonna protect you, you’re wrong. They’re not babysitters, they werent with us while the fucking psyco chased us outside the stadium,because you told them not to, privacy and some another bullshit you came up with as a reason. We need someone who’s with you all the time, Caitlyn. Someone focused on you, not for the safety net of the next show, nor the next meeting.” Her voice softened slightly, but the concern still hung there. “I’m not asking for you to understand it. I’m asking you to do it for your own damn safety, and—if not for yourself—then at least for me.”
Caitlyn stood there, still in shock, her mind reeling from everything Mel had just thrown at her. She ran a hand through her wet hair, feeling the exhaustion pull at her, but the last thing she wanted was to give in to Mel’s demands. “I don’t need a damn bodyguard, Mel,” she said, her voice laced with annoyance now.
“Then i fucking quit Cailtyn, you don’t see what I see. You don’t see the way these people are looking at you. You don’t see how it feels when I get the calls—when I’m told someone’s following you or trying to sneak backstage because they think they own you.” Mel’s voice cracked slightly, the raw edge barely contained now. “I can’t keep doing this if you’re not going to take it seriously, I'm not gonna see you put yourself on the line because of your own stubbornness while I can do everything to avoid that.”
Caitlyn froze. She opened her mouth to argue, but something stopped her. She had never seen Mel like this, had never heard that kind of desperation in her voice. And even though her instinct was still to push it away, she couldn’t ignore the sense of dread creeping into her chest.
“Do it for me, Cait,” Mel continued, her voice quieter now, but with a firmness that left no room for negotiation. “Do it so I can stop looking over my shoulder every time you walk out the door.”
Caitlyn ran her hands down her face, the weight of it all sinking in. She had never let herself believe that something like this could actually happen. She thought she could keep the world at arm's length—control it. But now… now she wasn’t so sure.
She met Mel’s gaze, her throat tight. “So you think I need to hire someone to follow me around?”
“Yeah,” Mel said, her voice steady. “I do. At least until we get this sorted out. You need to stay alive first. Everything else is secondary.”
For the first time in a long while, Caitlyn didn’t have a sharp comeback. She just stood there, feeling the cold reality of it settle over her. “fine” she muttered, her voice barely above a whisper.
Mel nodded, but there was no smile. Only that look—the same kind of concern she always had when Caitlyn didn’t listen. “Thank you”
Vi’s boots clack against the cold concrete floor as she steps deeper into the undercity club, a place where the music doesn’t just hit your ears—it feels like it’s rattling your bones. The neon lights buzz faintly above her, casting sickly purple and green glows over the grimy walls, flickering every now and then like they’re about to die out. The air smells like stale alcohol, sweat, and something sharp, like the remnants of a bad deal gone even worse. It’s a familiar scent, one that smells like home.
She’s dressed in black leather—well-worn, fitted around her body like armor, not that it would stop anything if it came to it. Her hair’s pulled back in a messy bun over her undercut, strands falling out of place from the fight she’s just wrapped up. Her face is still set in a neutral mask, though the adrenaline from the takedown hasn’t quite worn off. A few beads of sweat dot her forehead, and her knuckles throb, but she barely notices. Pain’s an old friend of hers.
The crowd of people around her barely reacts. They’re used to seeing someone like her in here. Bounty hunters, mercenaries, and the occasional wannabe gangster or dealer—they all share this underworld like a well-worn pair of boots. Vi’s movements are precise and controlled as she pushes through the people clustered at the bar and around the pool tables. There’s no need to pay attention to any of them. The bodies blur together as she passes, and no one dares to make eye contact with her.
She’s a shadow among shadows, blending in perfectly with the chaos. But even the smallest movements stand out in places like this.
The fight was over in a few minutes. The man was quick, but Vi was quicker. A well-placed punch, a twist of the wrist, and he was on the ground, face pressed into the cold tile. His pleading had been pathetic, but that’s the business—no sympathy for the desperate. She’d made it look easy, though it hadn’t been. That’s what she does. She gets the job done, no matter how messy.
She approaches the back corner of the club, her boots clicking louder now, the only real noise over the muffled bass that’s thumping through the club. She’s got the man’s payment in a small duffel bag in her left hand, the weight of it familiar but not reassuring. The money’s not much, not enough for the job she just did. But it’s what she’s got. She pushes the door open to the small, windowless back room.
Inside, the man from the back office, a twitchy little guy named Sam, is there, sitting behind a cracked desk. His eyes flicker nervously up at her as she sets the bag down. He opens it quickly, counting the bills with shaky hands, but Vi’s not paying attention. She’s leaning against the doorframe, rolling her neck and flexing her fingers to release the tension. It’s a habit—part of the process after every job.
“You got the job done, I’ll give you that,” Sam mutters, his voice high-pitched and quick, like he’s already got one foot out the door. He’s afraid of her, Vi can tell. She’s used to it.
“Yeah, I did,” Vi says, her voice low and rough. She doesn’t let him off the hook, though. “But it wasn’t worth the payout. Should’ve been double for that kind of work. That guy wasn’t a small fish, you know?”
Sam looks up, his eyes darting. He rubs the back of his neck, clearly uncomfortable. “I don’t control the rates, Vi. You get what you’re given.”
Vi snorts and glances at the window behind him, the dim glow of the streetlights cutting through the grime on the glass. The city outside’s buzzing, alive in a way this room isn’t. She’s ready to leave, but not without letting him know what she thinks.
“Yeah, well, next time I’ll make sure you pay a little more,” she says, turning on her heel, feeling the weight of the duffel bag swing against her side.
“Wait—hey, you—” Sam stammers, but Vi’s already halfway to the door, slinging the bag over her shoulder.
She doesn’t wait around for him to finish his sentence. She’s heard it all before. Instead, she steps out into the hallway, the sounds of the club barely registering now. The loud music is replaced by the hum of the street outside. A street that never sleeps, filled with the kind of people who need her work. She doesn’t mind. She’s good at it.
As she walks through the narrow alley to the exit, her hand instinctively reaches up to adjust the gun holstered at her side. It’s not out of fear—it’s just habit. The way the weight of the weapon feels on her body is comforting, steadying.
The cool night air hits her face when she steps outside, and she breathes it in. The city’s alive, but it's the kind of life she’s grown used to. It's gritty. Dangerous. Real.
She grumbles under her breath, heading toward the nearest bar. She needs a drink, something strong to burn away the bitterness of a lowball payout. Maybe she’ll find someone else to deal with next time—someone with deeper pockets. It doesn’t matter who they are. She’s used to making people disappear, one way or another.
The city doesn’t care about who’s in charge—it just keeps turning, like clockwork. And Vi? She’s just another cog.
Her boots hit the pavement with purpose, her mind already calculating her next move.
Vi walks into the well known bar a few minutes later, the dim lighting casting long shadows over the worn-out tables. The atmosphere is heavy with smoke and alcohol, the hum of conversations blending into the low roar of the jukebox playing in the corner. She makes her way to the far side, where a familiar face is waiting. A tall man in a sharp suit, his eyes glinting with something like interest.
Marcus.
He’s a stranger to her, but there’s something about the way he looks at her that makes her skin itch. Like he’s sizing her up, mentally measuring her every move. Vi doesn’t care. She doesn’t trust men like him, but she’s learned to listen when money’s involved.
She doesn’t take a seat right away. Instead, she leans against the edge of the counter, ordering a whiskey from the bartender with a quick wave of her hand. The alcohol is strong enough to burn the back of her throat, just the way she likes it.
"Vi, right?" Marcus says, voice smooth, but with a slight edge of calculation. "You’ve got a reputation. I’ve been hearing things."
She raises an eyebrow and takes another slow sip from her glass. "I’m sure you have. I don’t remember sending out a memo, though."
Marcus chuckles softly, but there’s no humor in it. He leans back in his chair, fingers tapping on the surface of the table. "I heard you’re good at what you do. That’s why I’m here." He glances around, making sure no one’s paying too much attention, then leans in, lowering his voice just a touch. "I’ve got a job for you. Big money, big risk."
Vi stares at him, her mind already going through the possibilities. "Risk’s my middle name," she says, her voice low and steady. She lets her eyes flicker over him, scanning his outfit, his demeanor. This guy? He’s not a player in the game she’s used to. Too polished. Too clean. Doesn’t belong in places like this.
Marcus seems to catch her gaze, his lips curling into a slight smile, like he’s enjoying the challenge. "I’m overseeing a new security campaign for someone important," he starts. "Someone who needs a certain... type of protection." He pauses, letting the tension linger in the air before continuing. " And I need someone who doesn’t get attached. Someone like you."
Vi doesn’t react, but she feels the hairs on the back of her neck stand up. "I don’t do babysitting."
Marcus raises his hands, as if trying to placate her. "No babysitting. It’s just a simple job. Protect her. Watch her back. Make sure nothing happens to her."
Vi rolls her eyes, leaning back slightly, glancing around the bar. "And who is this ‘her’ exactly? I don’t know anyone who needs a bodyguard down here."
Marcus tilts his head, like he’s waiting for her to connect the dots. When she doesn’t, he sighs and says, "Caitlyn Kiramman."
Vi freezes, just for a second, before her expression hardens again. "Who?"
Marcus blinks, clearly surprised. "You don’t know who Caitlyn Kiramman is?" he asks, his voice incredulous.
Vi shrugs, as if it’s no big deal. "I don’t really follow important people," she mutters. "I’m more into finding people who don’t want to be found."
Marcus’s lips twitch, like he’s amused, but there’s an underlying tension in his eyes. He leans in, his fingers drumming on the edge of his glass. "Caitlyn Kiramman is a global pop sensation. She’s huge. You don’t have to know her to understand what I’m offering. The pay’s good. Real good. You’ll have access to more money than you can imagine."
Vi doesn’t flinch. "And what’s the catch?"
He leans forward, his voice low. "The catch is, you’ll also have to gather information. Anything on her that could ruin her career. Anything we can use against her."
Vi stares at him for a long moment, considering. She doesn’t flinch, doesn’t blink. The offer’s tempting, but there’s something off about this whole thing. "So, you want me to take out some celebrity’s dirty laundry?" she asks, voice dry, but her interest piqued.
"Exactly," Marcus says, smiling. "You get paid well from her team and you will pretend you know nothing, you dig up whatever you can on her—her secrets, her problems, anything. Then, you report back to me and i'll give you the money for the information"
Vi’s gaze narrows, but she’s already thinking it through. The money is probably good, better than what she’s used to, and she’s never been one to turn down a payday. "And what do you get out of it?"
Marcus doesn’t answer right away. He simply leans back in his chair and watches her, like he’s letting her come to her own conclusions. He’s good at that—making people feel like they figured something out on their own.
"I’ll take the job," Vi finally says, after a long pause. "But I want more than just your usual pay. If I’m digging through someone’s life, I want something extra for my time besides the information."
Marcus raises an eyebrow, clearly impressed. "You’ve got a good head on your shoulders," he says. "I’ll throw in an extra bonus for you Once you have access to certain information that my contractor is looking for —information that might be worthwhile when you're working. But I don’t need to tell you that. You’ll figure it out."
Vi doesn’t care who the “information” is coming from. All that matters is the price tag. The money, the bonus—she’s in. She knows she can do this. She’s done worse things for a lot less.
"When and where do I start?" she asks, leaning forward slightly, making sure she looks like she’s paying attention.
Marcus taps the edge of his glass thoughtfully, then nods toward the back of the bar. "There’s an assembly tomorrow. Caitlyn’s manager will be there to interview the candidates. All the details are in the packet I’ll give you. You’ll get a full briefing, but it’s simple. You meet her. Make sure you get into the interview down, that means you'll have to behave like a proper bodyguard. I've already recommended you myself so you'll probably get the gig. Then you make sure no one gets in her way. Report back to me once you find something and you'll have your money.”
Vi just nods. "Got it."
Marcus doesn’t linger. He stands up, tossing a small envelope onto the table. It’s thick—probably filled with cash. He smiles one last time before turning and disappearing into the crowd, leaving Vi to finish her drink.
She picks up the envelope, weighing it in her hand for a moment, feeling the cool edges of it, and then slips it into her jacket pocket. She doesn’t bother counting it right now. The job is done. And the real work starts tomorrow.
She heads toward the exit, her thoughts swirling with possibilities—who Caitlyn Kiramman really is, what secrets she might have, and why she needs protection in the first place.
Vi’s never been one to care about celebrities or their drama. But this job? This one’s different. And it might just be the payday she’s been looking for.
The apartment smells faintly of cigarette smoke and stale coffee as Vi flips through the stack of papers in front of her, her fingers tracing the edges with a mix of frustration and focus. The dim light from a broken desk lamp casts sharp shadows across her worn-out desk. It’s messy, cluttered—like everything in her life. Unfinished business, old debts, and pieces of half-remembered jobs litter the surface. But tonight, everything else fades away as she concentrates on the documents Marcus gave her.
She slides her thumb across the words, reading the briefing with the same detached intensity she’s used to in the past. The papers are full of details—Caitlyn Kiramman’s daily schedule, her security team’s protocols, and a list of the high-profile enemies and potential threats Caitlyn faces. Every page reveals another layer of Caitlyn’s carefully curated life, a picture of someone who lives under constant scrutiny and pressure. The lines blur as Vi reads, her eyes scanning over the list of meetings, photoshoots, and red carpet events, each item meticulously planned. Caitlyn's life is anything but spontaneous.
What catches Vi's attention, however, are the notes on Caitlyn’s team. Mel. The manager. Vi’s been warned about her. Mel has a reputation for being a bulldog—a protective force of nature. She runs Caitlyn’s life with an iron fist, always a step ahead, and isn’t afraid to step on anyone who gets in the way of her star. She keeps Caitlyn’s world tightly controlled, handling all her business affairs, her public image, and her personal safety. Mel has a reputation that precedes her: ruthless, no-nonsense, and fiercely loyal to Caitlyn.
A small part of Vi is curious about Mel, but it's the next bit of information that stops her cold. Caitlyn Kiramman isn’t just some pop star with a pretty face and a world of followers. Vi’s always thought of the music industry as fake—a market of manufactured stars, where the only thing that matters is the money. But Caitlyn? She’s different. A closer look at the schedule reveals snippets of Caitlyn's genuine efforts to push boundaries, to speak out on causes that matter to her. She’s not just a pop icon; she’s a brand, a voice. But it’s not all glamorous. The threats she faces are real—rivals who want her career to fail, stalkers who try to get too close, and media vultures who will tear her apart at the slightest misstep.
Vi sighs, tossing the papers aside, leaning back in her chair. It’s a job like any other, she tells herself. Protect the target. Get paid. Move on. That’s how it works. There’s no room for moral dilemmas, no space for questioning what kind of person Caitlyn Kiramman really is. All Vi needs to do is keep her safe. But something gnaws at her, a tinge of curiosity that she knows better than to entertain.
She glances over at the suit hanging on the back of the chair. It’s nothing like the clothes she’s used to—black leather, simple and utilitarian. This suit, the crisp white shirt, and the perfectly pressed blazer feel like someone else’s idea of what she should wear. It feels too tight around her shoulders, too stiff at the collar. She runs her fingers over the fabric and sighs. A part of her hates it, but she’ll wear it. She doesn’t have the luxury to care about comfort right now.
Pulling on the jacket, she grabs the leather bag at her feet and stuffs the documents inside. Vi doesn’t care what the job entails beyond keeping Caitlyn alive. The details Marcus gave her are enough. She can get through this without letting herself get tangled up in Caitlyn’s world. But even as she turns away from the desk and heads for the door, a part of her wonders just what kind of mess she’s walking into.
Vi steps out onto the bustling city sidewalk, the cold air slicing through her, her mind already starting to sharpen. Her heels click against the concrete as she strides towards the entrance of the towering building in front of her, its sleek glass exterior reflecting the lights of the surrounding city. She’s used to dark alleys and grimy corners, not glass-and-steel monuments to corporate wealth. She lets out a low breath, adjusting the tight collar of her blazer—she’s not used to wearing anything like this, and it’s a constant reminder of how out of place she feels in this world.
She hadn’t thought much about what she was wearing when she agreed to take the job, but now that she’s here, she feels every inch of her discomfort. The tailored suit is stiff, the fabric unfamiliar against her skin. The dress shoes—black, polished, and sharp—make her want to claw them off. But it’s all part of the act. She needs to look the part, even if it doesn’t sit right with her.
Vi walks past the security guard at the entrance with a slight nod, the man looking her up and down as she approaches the elevator. She doesn’t give him the satisfaction of a second glance, but she feels his eyes on her back. Inside the elevator, the walls are mirrored, and Vi catches a glimpse of herself—too clean, too polished, like an imposter wearing someone else’s skin. She turns her gaze away, focusing on the numbers as the elevator ascends.
The soft chime of the elevator announces her arrival at the 35th floor. The doors open to reveal a sleek, minimalist lobby. White walls, polished floors, and soft lighting. It feels almost too sterile, too perfect for her taste. She steps out, the sound of her footsteps muffled by the plush carpet, and walks toward the reception desk at the end of the room. The receptionist, a woman dressed in crisp black and white, looks up from her screen, giving Vi a brief once-over before offering a polite smile.
“Can I help you?”
Vi clears her throat, glancing down at the slip of paper she’s been handed earlier. “Yeah, I’m here for the interview for the bodyguard position.”
The receptionist flicks her gaze over Vi, noting the less-than-perfect suit and the slight scuff of her shoes before nodding. “Floor 40. Take the elevator down the hall.”
Vi pockets the slip, casting one last look at the pristine lobby before walking down the hall toward the elevator. Her suit feels suffocating in this air-conditioned world—too tight around the shoulders, the fabric too stiff. She adjusts her tie for the third time, but it doesn’t make a difference. It’s just another reminder that she’s not supposed to belong here.
As the elevator doors close with a soft chime, she lets out a breath and straightens her back. The elevator ride is too short, too quiet. She can feel her own pulse drumming in her ears as she glances at herself in the reflective elevator doors. The sharp lines of her suit feel alien on her, not quite her. Her knuckles are still bruised from her last job, but she makes sure they’re hidden as she adjusts the folder in her hand—a thick binder filled with everything she's done in her life
She makes it to the 40th floor, stepping off into a wide corridor. The air smells like expensive leather and cologne, the glass walls offering a view of the city below. Vi walks past a few offices before arriving at the door marked “INTERVIEW ROOM.” She pauses for a moment, glancing at the thick glass windows. She can hear the faint murmur of voices from the other side, but nothing clear. She’s not sure what she expected, but it wasn’t this—she thought it’d be a small office, maybe a couple of people asking questions. Instead, there’s a whole room of men—some of them look big enough to crush her without a second thought.
Vi stands still for a moment, studying the situation, her mind already running through the possible scenarios. The door opens just before she can reconsider, and a small framed blonde girl steps out, her expression cool but professional.
“Miss Violet?” she says, glancing down at a tablet she’s holding. Vi notices how effortlessly Lux carries herself in her pristine black blazer and trousers, an air of confidence radiating from her.
“Yeah?” Vi answers, holding up the binder with all her information.
“I’m Lux, I'll be conducting the candidates from now forward. Let me take that,” Lux says, stepping forward and taking the folder from Vi. She runs her eyes over the contents for a brief second before nodding. “You can leave this with me. Miss Kiramman will want to speak with you directly.”
Vi frowns. “I thought I was meeting with Miss Medarda, not Miss Kiramman herself.”
Lux smiles slightly, but there’s something tight about it. “Miss Kiramman prefers to do things her way. She’ll speak with you shortly, you can wait here please.”
Vi feels a knot tighten in her stomach at the mention of Caitlyn. She hadn’t expected this—hadn’t thought much about who exactly would be conducting the interview. She just assumed it’d be Mel, the manager, as planned. But Caitlyn... that throws her off.
Vi sits down stiffly, still feeling the uncomfortable tightness of the suit around her. She looks around the room, noticing that the men have gone back to their conversations, paying her no more attention. She feels out of place, but she’s used to that. It doesn’t faze her.
A few moments later, Lux stands in front of her, smoothing her black blazer. "Please, follow me," she says.
The hallway seems endless, with multiple doors to private offices and conference rooms. Vi feels like a fish out of water, but she stays focused, keeping her shoulders squared and her steps steady as she follows Lux to the far end of the hall.
Finally, Lux stops at a large door with no plaque, no name—just the polished wood and clean lines. She turns to Vi, giving her a small nod before knocking twice and opening the door. The office beyond is spacious—richly appointed, but it’s the woman inside that commands attention.
Lux gestures for Vi to enter. “Miss Kiramman will speak with you now.”
As Vi steps inside, the door shuts softly behind her, and she’s immediately struck by the contrast of the space. Everything here is lavish—the floor-to-ceiling windows showcasing the city below, the expensive art adorning the walls, and the furniture that looks like it belongs in a museum rather than an office.
Caitlyn Kiramman doesn’t even look up right away.
She’s sitting behind her immaculate mahogany desk, a folder spread open in front of her, fingers tapping absently against the paper as she reads. The office is clean, modern, and expensive in a way that doesn’t feel excessive—just precise, calculated.
Vi, meanwhile, stands still.
She doesn’t fidget. Doesn’t shift her weight. Best behavior. Hands tucked casually behind her back, posture straight but not stiff. It’s not her usual style, but she’s been in enough of these situations to know when to keep her attitude in check.
And right now, Caitlyn already looks pissed off.
Not in a dramatic way—no scowl, no outright hostility. Just... mildly exasperated. Like she’s been dealing with too much today, and this is just another thing on her plate. The slight tension in her shoulders, the way her eyes skim the pages with thinly veiled impatience—yeah, she doesn’t want to be here.
Vi doesn’t take it personally.
Finally, Caitlyn sighs through her nose and lifts her gaze. Sharp. Cool. Focused. Blue. Too Blue.
"Violet."
Vi doesn’t flinch at the name this time. She expected it.
"Miss Kiramman," she replies smoothly.
Caitlyn arches an eyebrow, like she wasn’t expecting Vi to be so polite. She doesn’t comment on it, though. Instead, she flicks the edge of the folder, tapping one perfectly manicured nail against the paper.
"You were in the army," she says. It’s not a question. Just a flat statement.
Vi nods. "Yes, ma’am."
Caitlyn’s eyebrow twitches slightly. Probably not used to being called 'ma’am.'
"Five years," Caitlyn continues, tapping the folder again. "Tactical specialization. Reconnaissance. Honorable discharge."
Another nod. "That’s right."
Caitlyn finally leans back in her chair, arms crossing. There’s something calculating in the way she looks at Vi, like she’s already trying to find a reason to cross her off the list.
"Why’d you leave?"
Vi doesn’t answer immediately. Not because she’s caught off guard, but because she’s considering the best way to word it.
"Had to take care of my family," she says evenly.
Caitlyn hums, tapping the file again—a restless little movement.
"That’s the short version," she says dryly. "What’s the long one?"
Vi exhales slowly, keeping her expression neutral. Of course Caitlyn would push.
"Long version?" Vi tilts her head slightly. "They’re all dead."
Caitlyn goes still.
It’s subtle—barely noticeable—but Vi catches it. The tiny flicker in her eyes, the way her tapping finger pauses for just a second before resuming.
Then—just as quick—Caitlyn schools her expression back to mild disinterest.
"I see," she says. Not an apology. Not sympathy. Just acceptance.
Vi appreciates that, at least.
She shifts slightly. "No strings attached," she adds, voice even. "No personal distractions. No one to call in the middle of the night needing me home. I take a job, I see it through." Caitlyn nods once, brisk. "Convenient."
Vi almost smirks. Figures Caitlyn would call it that.
"You could say that," Vi agrees.
Caitlyn tilts her head slightly, like she’s reassessing something. "And now you’re here."
Vi nods again.
Caitlyn’s gaze drifts back down to the file, flipping a page. "Why this job?"
Because some shady guy in an underground club paid me to.
Vi obviously doesn’t say that.
Instead, she keeps her tone smooth, professional. "I’m good at keeping people safe, Miss Kiramman. You need security that doesn’t fold under pressure. That’s me."
Caitlyn arches an eyebrow. "Confident, huh."
Vi allows the faintest twitch of a smile. "Haven’t been proven wrong yet Ma’am."
Caitlyn doesn’t respond immediately. Instead, she closes the folder.
"You’re not what I expected," she says.
Vi doesn’t let herself react. "Im, sorry?"
Caitlyn leans back in her chair, arms still crossed. "Someone predictable. Someone I could trust to follow orders without question." Her eyes flick to Vi’s hands—the faint bruises still there from her last fight. "Someone who doesn’t get into bar fights on their days off."
Vi flexes her fingers slightly, keeping her expression neutral. "That’s a pretty specific requirement Ma’am."
Caitlyn shrugs, as if to say what can you do?
For a moment, neither of them speak. Just watching. Assessing. Waiting for the other to blink first.
Then, Caitlyn stands.
It’s a smooth movement, graceful in a way that feels deliberate. She takes a step toward Vi—not close enough to be confrontational, but enough to close the distance just a little.
"You’re on probation," Caitlyn says.
Vi blinks. "Excuse me?"
"You heard me." Caitlyn picks up a pen, twirling it absently between her fingers. "You’ll report to me and my team directly. Your job is to prove I can trust you."
Vi tilts her head slightly. "And if you decide you can’t?"
Caitlyn meets her gaze, unwavering. "Then you’re out."
Vi lets that hang in the air for a second before smirking. "You always make people jump through hoops for you, or am I just special?"
Caitlyn’s lips twitch—not a smile. Just amusement. Just a flicker.
"Consider it an opportunity."
Vi exhales through her nose, half a chuckle. "To prove myself?"
Caitlyn smirks, just barely. "To keep up."
Vi doesn’t respond. But something about this just got interesting.
Caitlyn places the pen down, already moving past the conversation. "My manager will send you the details. You can go now."
Vi hesitates, just for a second, before turning toward the door. She pulls it open, stepping out into the hallway only to hear Caitlyn’s voice, one last time.
"Welcome to the job, Violet."
Vi doesn’t turn around. But that name is gonna get old fast.