Page 116 of Scarred in Silence

This part of Utah doesn’t sleep. Neon drips down buildings like spilled paint, glowing against glass windows that hide sins no one’s supposed to see.

Club Muse looks precisely the same.

Sleek. Polished. Dangerous.

I used to think it was glamorous.

Now I know better.

The music thumps through the pavement beneath my boots. Bass and bodies, synthetic perfume and secrets. I inhale deeply, preparing myself to walk into the past that rewired everything I knew about love, power, and survival.

Lucien reaches for my hand, but I step forward first.

No turning back.

We don’t go through the front door. That would be suicide. We cut down the alley, the same one I used the night I escaped with Victor. My stomach turns at the thought.

It smells of stale wine and piss, but the memories hit harder than any stench.

“You sure about this?” Lucien murmurs, one hand hovering near the gun strapped under his hoodie.

I nod. “I need you to see it.”

A back door. A keypad that still uses a code. Fuck. He enters four-eight-zero-six. It opens. How did he know the code?

We slip in.

The hallway beyond is dim and quiet. A sharp contrast to the pounding music coming from the main floor. The walls are still that disgusting soft pink, like the inside of someone’s mouth. I hate it.

I lead Lucien past the staff rooms, through a hallway that smells like sweat and bleach, up a hidden stairwell that overlooks the showroom floor.

Below us, girls in glittering cages twirl for rich men in custom suits. Some of the girls smile like they mean it. Others smile like they were told to.

Lucien’s jaw flexes as he watches. His eyes are hollow. Dangerous.

I keep walking.

Down another hallway. Past the manager’s office. Around the corner.

Then we stop.

The door in front of us is solid black, with no handle on the outside. You only get in if someone wants you to.

But I remember the trick. A small panel along the frame, hidden by the shadow of the molding. I press my palm flat against it, and the door hisses open.

The room is empty.

Lucien follows me in, his footsteps careful, like he’s expecting ghosts.

They’re already here.

“This is where they auctioned me,” I say, voice like cracked porcelain.

“I stood on that platform. Naked. Drugged. Afraid.”

Lucien doesn’t speak. He just stares at the spot I pointed to—center of the room. A circle of velvet flooring. Above it, a chandelier shaped like a spiderweb.

I walk toward the mirrored wall, touching my reflection like it might tell me I’m someone else.