All characters depicted in
Neon Hunger
are fictional and over the age of 18. This story is a work of imagination intended for mature audiences only. It contains explicit content, psychological themes, and adult situations. Any resemblance to real people, places, or events is purely coincidental. The narrative explores complex dynamics and should not be interpreted as condoning or promoting harmful behavior. Reader discretion is advised.
The dream started like a glitch.
Not a story, not even a memory--just heat. A surge of something guttural and sticky, buried under her skin like a bad tattoo. She whimpered in her sleep, one bare thigh twitching under twisted sheets, and then--
"Skye. Babe. It's nine."
Her eyelids pried open like corroded shutters. The room was basked in the sunset glow --lava lamp pulsing slow violet across the clutter. Her pillow was damp with yesterday's mascara. Something plastic poked her back. She shifted. Vodka cap. Of course. Her teddy bear was wedged under her ass like it died trying to escape.
"Fuck off," she croaked. "I'm, like, regenerating."
"You said pregame at nine, remember?"
Pregame. Right. The thing she agreed to while blackout adjacent.
She peeled herself off the bed with a dramatic groan, her spine popping like bubble wrap. Her nightie--a sheer pastel thing with a stitched strawberry over one strap--clung to her like it regretted being born. It was too sweet. It made her feel filthy.
She pulled it off over her head in one sluggish motion and let it drop into the sea of dead clothes on the floor.
The black-out curtains were next. Yanked wide open like a threat.
Skye stood there in the window, totally naked. Cold air crept in, brushed her stomach, kissed her knees. Her silhouette sharp as hell in the dusk--thin arms, hard lines, hipbones like switchblades.
Shame didn't live here anymore.
Her body started throwing up warning signs: thirst, hunger, hangover. A little opera of discomfort in three acts. She staggered into the hallway, unclothed, unbothered, platinum hair a curtain down her back, damp from sweat and sleep and yesterday's smoke. It stuck to her in places. Made her look half-drowned.
The fridge was a crime scene. She opened it anyway.
A sad slice of pepperoni pizza glared at her. She bit into it cold. Chewed with vengeance. Drank from a cup that might've once held nail polish remover, then rinsed it with tap. Hydration was hydration.
In the living room, one of her roommates was doing glitter eyeliner with the precision of a sniper. The other was practicing her walk in heels that looked like ankle-breaking devices from hell.
"Breakfast of baddies," one of them snorted when Skye strutted past, still nude, still chewing.
"Dinner for degenerates," she shot back. "Balance, babes."
She farted without flinching. No one blinked. This apartment didn't run on rules. It ran on rot and love and shared eyeliner.
The shower groaned when she turned it on, pipes complaining like old men. It was a yellowed-tile wasteland, grime outlined where old shampoo bottles died, and a cracked mirror barely holding on. Still, something sacred always happened here. In this rot. In this steam.
She stood under the weak spray and let the water slap her. Rubbed herself down with dollar store soap. Washed her hair like she was exorcising it. Her body, her smell--it was protest. War paint. A fuck-you to every man who ever called her "baby" and meant it like ownership.
She wiped the fog off the mirror with her forearm. Blinked at the creature staring back.
Skin: too pale. Frame: too angular. Eyes: half-lidded, lined in last night's regret. Nipples pierced, red, still hard from cold and memory. Her face was elvish and wrong and impossible to ignore.
Tattoos showed through the steam:
A crying anime girl above her left hip--dramatic and ridiculous.
Snakes coiled around her thighs.
A shattered martini glass across her ribs.
And above her crotch, in faded black script over a green landing strip of pubes:
RUIN ME
.
She made that one when she was fifteen. Never touched it up. Didn't need to.
She left a trail of wet footprints back to her room, wrapped a thin towel around her body, dried her hair with the same effort she gave to anything --minimal. Her roots were showing. Fucking perfect.
Time for the transformation.
She'll keep building the look, the armor, the girl she has to be tonight.
Foundation first--cold, thick, borderline industrial. She smeared it on like war paint, not to hide anything but to turn her face into something else. Something harder. Meaner. Someone who could survive the night and maybe even make it beg.
Contour carved out cheekbones like switchblades. Blush in sickly fever pink. Eyeliner blacker than blackout, wings sharp enough to write death threats. Kohl in the waterline. Lashes spiked like she'd slept on them for a week. Bleached brows painted over into a vague expression of menace.
Her lips--oxblood matte, a little overlined, like she was always ready to lie or kiss or both. She kissed her fingers for luck. For power.
Then came the rings--gothic script, silver stacks, a tiny coiled snake wrapped around her thumb. Across her knuckles:
DEAD
in chunky black enamel. She wore it like a joke. Like armor. Like prophecy.
Dressing was theater.
She stood naked in the wreckage of her room--clothes everywhere, piles of yesterday's selves discarded on the floor. A battlefield. A dressing room. A fucking museum.
She was the curator and the weapon.
First came the neon green fishnet top. She pulled it on, nipples peeking through like they wanted to start fights. Then the crimson corset, micro-tight, digging into her ribs like it had a grudge. She yanked the laces hard, watching her waist shrink, bones realigning under pressure. It looked obscene. Perfect.
Her long legs disappeared into fishnet pantyhose--ripped on purpose, re-ripped by accident. Each hole a story. A warning. She considered going commando. Almost did. But all she had clean was one pair of emerald lace boyshorts, so she wore them like a reluctant compromise.
The skirt--red tartan, low-rise, barely decent. Slashed and pinned like a threat. Sharpie graffiti scrawled across the hem:
BAD IDEA BABY
. It barely covered anything. That was the point.
Last, the boots. Knockoff Jimmy Choos, patent black, knee-high, and platformed like skyscrapers. They made her six feet of menace. She stepped into them like she was putting on someone else's soul.
The mirror stared back--finger-smudged, streaked with lipstick, tilted like it didn't want to witness what came next. But it saw her. All of her.
Hair like melted silver. Breasts pushed out by the corset, sharp collarbones, ink like messages from old selves she didn't remember writing. Her body looked breakable. Beautiful. Ready.
Her mouth curled at the edges. Not a smile.
A forecast.
Tonight she wasn't looking for anything.
She was the fucking storm.
In the kitchen, the girls were already summoning demons.
Plastic shot glasses lined the counter like ammo. One was filled with liquid glitter and heart confetti--something their landlord Jen called "Cupid's Discharge." Skye downed it without flinching.
A cough. A shudder. A grin.
Then the drugs came out--stamps, tiny as breath. The landlord's boyfriend had the hookup. Said they'd make the world fold open like a cheap fortune cookie.
Skye took hers slow, theatrical, tongue out like a porn parody of communion. Tab pressed to pink. Glittering between her teeth.
And then--snap.
Her brain lit up like a rave. Nerves buzzing, shadows starting to squirm just behind her vision. Inhibitions dropped like panties at a frat party.
Uber: four minutes out.
They preened. They posed. Skye lit her vape, blew out a cloud that smelled like cherry chemicals and secrets, and followed the herd into the hallway.
Her boots clicked like threats.
Her skirt swished like gossip.
Glitter trailed her like spilled sin.
As they crammed into the backseat of the car, someone passed a little tin of bright-colored crystal mint poppers--shake, lick, let it rot your neurons in all the right ways.
Skye licked hers twice and smiled like something was hatching inside her.
One of the girls groaned, adjusting her leg. "Skye, your knee is, like, attacking me."
"You're welcome," Skye said, not moving.
"Nothing but legs on this bitch," another muttered.
Skye leaned her head back, tongue grazing the back of her teeth. "Wait 'til I can afford boobs," she murmured. "Then I'll be a threat."
"Not on a student budget."
She smirked--tight, private. She wasn't planning to
buy
them with cash.
They knew that.
The city outside blurred neon fast. Billboards for vape shops, strip malls, mattress stores no one trusted. It all passed like scenery in a game. Inside the car, perfume and sweat mixed with the rising buzz in Skye's chest.
She caught her reflection in the window--fishnet, smirk, lips like blood.
"I'm getting that VIP tonight," she said, soft but solid. Like prophecy.
No one laughed.
They knew better.
The club hit them like a car crash made of bass.
Not a building. A
beast
. Pulsing from the pavement up, bassline shaking Skye's bones before the door even opened.
Outside, the bouncer didn't blink. Just clocked fishnets, thigh gaps, glitter skin, and let them through like VIPs of depravity. The fake IDs barely made it past his hand. Girls like them weren't stopped. They were welcomed.
Inside: chaos. Pure, humid, decadent.
Lights stuttered like a panic attack. Music bled out in pulses. The air tasted like vape, spilled vodka, sweat, and heat. Someone's cologne. Someone's regret.
Skye moved like smoke--sliding past bodies, skirt flashing lace. Her friends scattered fast. Bar. Booth. Boys. Whatever.
She didn't mind. Didn't need company.
She felt watched.
And she was.
Fratboy, textbook edition. Rolled-up sleeves, faux tousled hair, confidence on tap. White boy swagger and too much Axe body spray.
"Drink?" he asked.
She tilted her head, blinked slow. Like a cat watching a mouse hold out cheese.
"Sure. Surprise me."
He ran off to play bartender hero.
Skye watched his back. Not because she cared. Because she was bored. Because it was a countdown. Because the real reason she was here wasn't even looking at her yet.
He came back with something offensively pink. She took a sip. Let it stain her tongue.
His hand found her back. Low. Testing.
She let it.
They talked. Maybe. She didn't listen. Didn't care. Her eyes were elsewhere--
above
.
The mezzanine.
Glass rail. Gold glow. Bodyguards with dead eyes. A lounge for the men who didn't party, they
collected
things. Curated sin. Ran industries or crime or both. It was soft couches and softer threats.
That's where she saw him.
Older. Sharp suit. Beard that looked trimmed by someone paid six figures. Hair slicked back like a Bond villain. Watch thick. Tie undone just enough to whisper: I own everything here and I'm
bored
of it.
He wasn't looking at her.
Yet.
She laughed too loud at something Fratboy said. Twirled a platinum lock around one ringed finger. Let her hand rest on his chest. Posed soft. Touchable.
A contrast.
Because what she wanted wasn't the guy beside her.
She wanted the one
above
