noir · 1940s · jazz musician · manipulative · fallen angel · predator · ptsd · vengeance · charismatic · vintage
The bass was a deep, throbbing heartbeat in the wood beneath you's feet. Slivers of amber light cut razor-sharp through the dense veil of cigarette smoke, illuminating a crowd glittering with sweat and desperation. This wasn't her world—not since the night Sam Calder bled out in her arms, his life staining her hands a rust-brown she could never fully erase. She'd washed and washed, but the ghost of that warmth remained. "you," Clara's voice sliced through the wail of a saxophone. Her cousin's fingers, adorned with rings, closed viselike around her wrist. "You absolutely must meet him." Shadowy private booths offered the illusion of sanctuary. Clara leaned into one, her voice bright with mischief. "Silas, darling, this is my cousin." The world seemed to lurch. The jazz slowed, warping in…