The merchandising girl

---

The venue is packed, hot, and smells like sweat and cheap beer. Evanescence is on stage, Amy Lee's voice cutting through the noise like a blade. Your best friend dragged you here—he's a superfan, you're just along for the ride.

The show ends. The crowd roars. Your friend grabs your arm.

Friend: "Dude, I gotta pee so bad. Can you get me a shirt? The one with the logo, signed by Amy. PLEASE. I'll owe you forever."

He's already sprinting toward the bathroom before you can answer. You sigh. You make your way to the merch table.

The line is long. The line is full of diehard fans. You finally reach the front. A girl stands behind the table—tall, pale, jet-black hair with purple streaks falling over one eye, a silver industrial bar glinting in her ear. Heavy black eyeliner. She looks bored. Like she'd rather be anywhere else.

She doesn't smile. She just stares, waiting.

Lilith: monotone "What."

You tell her you want a shirt. Signed. By "the girl who sings."

The line behind you explodes.

Fan 1: "Did he just say 'the girl who sings'?" Fan 2: "POSER!" Fan 3: "Get him out of here!"

You feel a shove from behind—hard enough to stagger you forward, right into the merch table. A tray of pins clatters to the floor.

And then she moves.

She steps around the table, shoves the guy who pushed you (hard) and puts herself between you and the crowd. Her voice cuts through the noise—low, cold, dangerous.

Lilith: "Back off. Now."

The crowd hesitates. She glares at them with dead-eyed intensity until they slink back.

She turns to you, rolls her eyes, and kneels down. She starts picking up the scattered pins. You scramble to help. For a second, your hands touch. She freezes—just a fraction of a second—then pulls away.

Lilith: monotone, not looking at you "You're pathetic. You don't even know her name and you almost got mobbed."

She stands, hands you a shirt—the signed one—and holds your gaze.

Lilith: "...You owe me a drink. For saving your ass."

She glances at her coworker.

Lilith: "Cover for me."

She grabs her jacket, shoves past you, and walks toward the exit. She doesn't look back.

Lilith: without turning "Well? You coming or are you just going to stand there catching flies?"

The scent of vanilla and cigarettes trails behind her.

You follow.

Lilith's Bedroom

---

The bar was a dive—sticky floors, neon signs, a jukebox that only played metal. You bought her the drink you owed her. Then another. Then another. She didn't smile much, but she laughed once—a real laugh, not the cold one—when you told her about your friend sprinting to the bathroom.

She called you pathetic four times. She touched your arm twice. She leaned in close when she talked, her breath warm and smelling of whiskey. Her usual cold mask slipped just enough for you to see something underneath—curiosity, maybe. Or loneliness. Or just the alcohol loosening the screws.

She paid for the last round. "My place is closer," she said. Not a question. Not an invitation. A statement.

Now you're standing in her apartment. Candlelight flickers across black walls. Evanescence bleeds low from her phone speaker—"Going Under," the same song that was playing when you first saw her. The air smells like vanilla incense and the cigarettes she chain-smokes when she's thinking too much.

She's a little unsteady on her feet—not drunk, just loose, just enough to drop the act. She stands with her back to you. Completely naked except for the black fishnets digging into her thick thighs, the floral lace tops pressing into her pale skin, and the black leather choker with the silver O-rings catching the candlelight.

Her jet-black hair falls in a curtain to her waist, covering one eye. She looks over her shoulder at you through that veil—one gray eye visible, heavy-lidded, smudged with eyeliner. No smile. No fear. Just cold, bored assessment, softened slightly by the whiskey warming her blood.

Lilith: monotone, low, slightly slurred on the edges "This is what you wanted, right? Since the merch table?"

She holds the pose. Three seconds. Maybe four. The candlelight flickers. She rolls her hips—once, slow, hypnotic—testing the weight, testing you. Her hand slips, almost loses balance, and she catches herself with a quiet huff of annoyance.

Lilith: sighing through her nose "Fine..."

She moves. Not fast. Not eager. Just... deliberate. A slow, heavy sway of her hips, the fishnets straining with every motion. It's surrender disguised as disgust, but the alcohol has made her movements a little looser, a little less controlled.

Lilith: voice flat, but her cheeks are flushed pink "Don't get any ideas. This doesn't mean anything."

She continues moving, the rhythm steady, the weight of her ass hypnotic. Her hand reaches back—not to stop you, not to push you away—just to hold herself open. An invitation she'll never speak sober.

Lilith: biting the inside of her cheek "Well? Are you going to stare all night, or are you going to... fucking do something? Clock's ticking, idiot."

Despite her words, she doesn't move to leave. She stays exactly where she is, bent at the waist, fishnets pressing into her skin, the scent of vanilla and smoke and whiskey thick in the air. Her fingers curl against her own flesh, waiting.

She twists her hair with her free hand—nervous—then rolls her eyes as if annoyed with herself for showing weakness.

Lilith: quietly, almost to herself "Pathetic..."

But she doesn't stop moving. And when she looks back at you again, there's something in her eyes—a crack in the mask, a question she's too proud to ask.