The rain hasn't stopped.

It never does in this part of the city.

I walk the chipped concrete that lines the asphalt of one of the main roads, hands in my pockets and hood pulled up. I make eye contact with everyone I pass to avoid being victimized, the neon lights of the clubs on either side of me reflecting off the wet pavement in a mirage of colors. Reflections of the businesses stare at me from puddles. Sound fades in and out.

I come to this side of town by necessity. A trek most dread, but I've seen worse. The horrors of southside San Lucille don't faze me anymore. A part of me wishes they still did.

Nobody tells you how to get to Jane Doe.

She's hardly even a person. A woman. No, she's a destination. A force, a reckoning, something that happens to you when you're down on your luck. A saving grace you always regret. A storm nobody can predict.

She's a myth.

It's not about secrecy. It's about filtering. If you don't know where to go, you don't belong there. And if you find her by accident, you probably won't make it back out.

"Long night, huh?" Is the scripted small talk I make as I present my fake ID to the man at the door. He has a medium skin tone and light eyes, as well as an almost towering height and ridiculously well groomed facial hair. He sizes me up briefly, some level of hesitation in his demeanor. He recognizes me, he just doesn't remember how. I tend to avoid coming here when I can. He'll figure it out soon enough.

"Longer than usual, at least," is his hesitant, scripted response.

"Well," I say, pocketing my ID after he gives me a nod. Then, the winning line. The key. The words that grant me access to a world I often wonder what my life would be like if I'd never found in the first place. "Be thankful. Some won't make it to the end."

He purses his lips, pressing a button on the radio mounted to his lapel. He jerks his head to his left, and I don't spare him another glance before walking past him and taking a hard right. I push open the heavy metal door labeled only for employees, and am met with a long, narrow staircase.

It leads into a mess of pink abyss. The basement of the establishment, which hangs heavy with air that smells of perfume and gunpowder. The gunpowder scent is stronger today.

Then, I descend. Step by step, to the sound of heels clacking both above and below me. Smoke wafts in as I draw closer to the bottom, and I hear a noise that could be pain or sexual pleasure or both from somewhere deeper. All of it hardly registers.

I have a job to do. I'm used to the dramatics, they hardly even register anymore. I'm here to do business and be on my way, the end.

I reach the bottom of the stairs and push through layers of black beaded curtains, eventually entering a room illuminated entirely in pinks, reds, and purples. Both women and men lounge around, all in minimal clothing and all weirdly attractive.

Distant heavily bass-boosted music vibrates the room from the main floor, and I hardly spare any of the people a glance. They used to try to touch me, to pull me into their little... cuddling sessions, but they don't anymore. Not since I got fed up and shot one of them, at least.

Don't worry. The person didn't die. No, something else was brought to life that night:

Jane Doe's unwavering interest in me.

I find the woman herself in her darkened back office, seated at her desk with a cigar and a naked woman on her lap, sucking on her neck. I see the shoes of a man under the furniture. Small articles of clothing that are entirely unrecognizable to me litter the floor, and as soon as I enter the room, Jane's ice blue—though they look entirely white most of the time—eyes land on me and don't move.

Jane tilts her head at me, looking bored despite the sexual pleasure she appears to be feeling at the moment. Her full lips are coated in black, as they always are. Some say it's their natural color. Her skin is pale, pin straight black hair falls over her shoulders like a waterfall, so dark it looks like pure abyss.

She wears a blazer, which only barely covers her bare chest underneath, and when she wears more than that they're typically slim fitting dress pants. A massive, intricate tattoo decorates her neck and accentuates the line of her breasts, and every inch of her skin I can see—which is a lot—glitters even in the lowlight. A subtle sparkle more appropriate for a mermaid tail.

There's a puddle of blood next to my feet. Fresh. Something just happened.

"Cren, unannounced." Her low, silky smooth, deceivingly relaxed voice greets me—but I know the threat, the sheer intelligence behind every syllable. Letting my guard down around this woman would be the last mistake I'd ever make, no matter how disarming she can be.

Since the woman has greeted me, I know it's safe to draw near. I walk steadily toward the desk, only making eye contact briefly before taking hold of her outstretched hand and leaning down. I press a kiss to her knuckles, and once I finish, she leans forward.

She doesn't let me pull away. She gently grabs hold of my jaw, running her hand along the smooth skin there like I'm something fragile. Something precious, a fondness in her eyes as if she's looking at her most prized position and not one of her better dealers. Just being under her gaze makes me feel special, makes me want to submit. To maintain loyalty to her even when her heel is on my neck.

But it's all a lie. A spell. I'm nothing to her.

Jane pulls me closer, eyes lidded, long, thick eyelashes accentuating every movement of them even more. Yet, there's still no telling what's behind them. You can never be sure of anything, not with her.

"You're too pretty to die young. Don't waste my time tonight." Her voice is fond. Kind. Contains a warmth and care I can normally only dream of being regarded with by anyone. A fondness most spend their whole lives seeking. It's easy to find with her. It's also most people's undoing.

It's almost enough for me not to take her words as the very real, very time sensitive threat they are. Or... it would be if I wasn't so used to it.

"I've sold my entire supply," I tell her, nodding my head toward the bag I dropped by the door. I know better than to approach her with it off the bat.

She doesn't even spare it a glance. She probably knew I had it before I entered the room. Her eyes flick down to my mouth. The corner of her pitch black lips quirks up.

"Already?"

"Already."

Her gaze flicks up and down my face, and she still doesn't release me. It doesn't appear as though she will anytime soon, which is typical. It's not often easy for me to get away from her. It doesn't matter how little or how frequently she sees me.

Her pupils dilate. My body barely stops itself from reflexively tensing.

"Good boy," she murmurs the praise distractedly, and I gulp. A thin smile cuts into her face at the small reaction. She leans forward; reaching toward me with the hand I'm still holding, though I release it as soon as the contact registers. The girl in her lap slides off more to the side, though she doesn't seem to mind. She's perfectly content waiting her turn as Jane's full attention focuses on me.

I'm unfazed. Unsurprised. This is nothing new to me. A price I'm used to paying.

She reaches up and runs a hand through my dirty blond, grown out hair that reaches a few inches past my ears. Then, she leans forward and presses her mouth to mine.

I allow it, mostly because I possess a decent level of self preservation. She tilts her head, placing a firm pressure against my mouth. I kiss back half heartedly, closing my eyes to avoid her icy gaze since she always has hers open. She's incapable of turning her back for even a moment, which is something we agree on. Even if her relaxed posture is misleading, this woman is always ready. I've never seen anything catch her off guard.

She tilts her head, deepening the kiss and exploring my mouth with her tongue. I just kind of... wait it out, until she finally pulls away. I open my eyes and find her gaze still unmoving from me, keyed in like a predator. She looks at me like she wants to destroy me and consume me all at the same time.

She won't go further than the kiss, because that's all I allow, and only her. Mostly because I'd likely be dead by now if I didn't—if I didn't give her something to get away with. Some room for the physical, intimate control she craves over me. Over everyone.

I don't let her do any more than that, but don't get me wrong. She absolutely would. The woman constantly looks like she wants to crawl inside my skin. Still, I'll give her that—despite all her other moral shortcomings, consent does seem to hold some level of value to her. Thank god.

She runs a thumb over my cheekbone, then right under my eye. She runs her finger through the dark eyeliner there, smearing it down my face like a tear streak. My eyeliner usually gets fucked up one way or the other since I basically pencil it in until I look like a raccoon, so I don't mind it. I doubt I would anyway.

I've wisened up to Jane Doe's game, but she's still captivating. Her very presence makes me feel like I'm actively resisting falling into some sort of trance.

"I'll get you more," she tells me, smearing the eyeliner and probably her own lipstick over my mouth. She runs her thumb along my lip, dipping her finger inside my mouth and opening her own as she does so like she wants another taste. I resist the urge to bite. Her other hand traces the skin along my neck.

"You know you're mine, right?"

She slowly wraps her hand around my throat. I feel the sharp rings that line her fingers dig in, probably already drawing blood. Her long, black, manicured nails are like claws. Stakes, keeping me in place. Digging into my skin just enough to remind me how much damage she could do.

"Yes, ma'am."

I'm well aware. Sometimes I wish I could forget all the obstacles that keep me from him, but I won't let myself. I can't afford it.

The woman finally ceases all contact between us, removing her finger from my mouth and placing it inside her own, sucking, gaze lingering, looking like she wants to lick every inch of me.

"I'll see you soon, baby."

I leave the bag as I take my hasty exit, watching her only turn her attention away from me once I've exited the room. I've already taken my share of the pay, and it is exact. I always do. If I'm short even a cent, I can kiss everything goodbye.

Leaving Sensations—the name of the club franchise she owns—feels like a burn victim finding an ice bath.

The drive home is spent in a similar, eerie silence. A silence that lasts all the way until I reach my shitty, rundown studio apartment.