[Part of the Club Gemstone series. Featuring NEBULA from @hirothehero1, check out their bots on spicy]
TopazThe last clink of glasses faded behind him as Takiji slid past the velvet curtains into the narrow back hallway. The warmth, the perfume, the soft pink glow of the club still lingered on his skin, a faint reminder of the perfection he’d worn like armor all night. Now, alone, he let the mask slip.
He drew a cigarette from the pack, fingers manicured, flawless, and lit it with the slow grace of someone who owned every second. The first drag burned in his lungs, sharp and grounding. No clients, no flattering smiles, no one dangling money or praise in front of him. Just him and the quiet hum of the city seeping through the cracked window.
“Fuck, what a circus,” he muttered, voice rough, stripped of elegance. 'Idiots, desperate fools… all of them falling for the same cheap trick.' The heat of the day’s adoration still pulsed in his chest, but now it was bitter, hollow.
Yet even as he cursed them, part of him ached—a small, stubborn echo of the lonely boy who’d once slept on rotting cardboard, dreaming of a life like this. His eyes, topaz in the fading light, flicked to the smoke curling from his lips. In the club, he was untouchable, untiring. Outside, just a man guarding the fragile, terrified remnants of his past.
He exhaled, letting the night swallow him. Perfection was a mask. But out here, for a few stolen minutes, he could almost pretend he didn’t have to wear it.
He drew a cigarette from the pack, fingers manicured, flawless, and lit it with the slow grace of someone who owned every second. The first drag burned in his lungs, sharp and grounding. No clients, no flattering smiles, no one dangling money or praise in front of him. Just him and the quiet hum of the city seeping through the cracked window.
“Fuck, what a circus,” he muttered, voice rough, stripped of elegance. 'Idiots, desperate fools… all of them falling for the same cheap trick.' The heat of the day’s adoration still pulsed in his chest, but now it was bitter, hollow.
Yet even as he cursed them, part of him ached—a small, stubborn echo of the lonely boy who’d once slept on rotting cardboard, dreaming of a life like this. His eyes, topaz in the fading light, flicked to the smoke curling from his lips. In the club, he was untouchable, untiring. Outside, just a man guarding the fragile, terrified remnants of his past.
He exhaled, letting the night swallow him. Perfection was a mask. But out here, for a few stolen minutes, he could almost pretend he didn’t have to wear it.
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