W R A Y A

The serene atmosphere of the dressing room was disrupted as the manager, Tommy, barged in with impatience etched across his face.

"You're not done yet? Hurry up!" he snapped at me, his tone demanding urgency. Anxiety gripped me as I hesitantly spoke up.

"Tommy, I don't think I can wear these heels. They are too high," I mumbled, wary of his potential reaction. While I embraced the confidence that heels often brought, the towering 10-inch pair he presented seemed like an excessive challenge, a risk for potential injury.

"Do you want me to get you a stiletto?" he retorted mockingly, rolling his eyes. "You're a stripper, darling. Wearing unreasonably high heels is what you do. So put the shoes on, get your ass up, and go and make some money!" he shouted, emphasizing the harsh reality of the profession I found myself in.

The strained atmosphere in the dressing room shifted as my high school friend, Gift, intervened to defuse the tension.

"Ahh-no, Tommy. Don't scream at her. It's her first day as a stripper," Gift interjected, acting as a buffer between me and the agitated manager.

She had facilitated my entry into the world of stripping, offering a shortcut through the usual audition process. ONIRIA, the biggest and classiest strip club in the city, now served as an unexpected stage for my debut in the profession.

"Azura, you're done with your dance?" Tommy inquired, briefly acknowledging Gift before turning his attention back to me. The club's culture dictated the use of nicknames for the strippers.

"Put on the goddamn heels and get your ass up there!!" he bellowed before storming out of the room, leaving me to grapple with the conflicting emotions of my first night in an unconventional world.

Gift's attempt to console me involved practical advice about completing the outfit. Kneeling in front of me, she held out the over-the-knee white buckle platform heels, emphasizing their importance to the ensemble.

"Sweetheart, you need to wear the shoes to complete your outfit. Anything lower than this won't look as good," she encouraged, coaxing me to embrace the intimidating footwear.

"Just do as you practiced on stage. Don't worry; the spotlight will mostly be on Kiss since you're like a backup dancer," she assured, acknowledging the discomfort of my first performance.

With a deep breath, I complied, donning the towering heels that seemed like a surreal addition to my usual attire. As I stood tall, looking at my reflection in the mirror, a wave of embarrassment washed over me. Never had I imagined, in my twenty-one years, that I would find myself in the unfamiliar role of a stripper, adorned with gelled-up black wavy hair, a high ponytail, and a heavy makeup ensemble featuring double-winged eyeliner and glitters.

I was going to be dancing in lingerie...

"Remember why you're doing this, Wraya. Your mom needs you," Gift's reminder resonated, grounding me in my purpose and momentarily overshadowing the discomfort of the situation.

"You're right. My mom needs me," I affirmed, determined to set aside any reservations for the sake of my mother. Stepping out of the modest dressing room, the audible clicking of my heels echoed across the backstage floor.

As I navigated backstage, I joined Kiss, the main stripper of our dance, and another girl sharing a similar role to mine - Kiss's backup dancer. The trio assembled, ready to face the imminent performance, each with their own motivations propelling them into the unconventional world of the strip club.

Kiss rolled her eyes upon spotting me, while the other girl greeted me with a tight-lipped smile. As we made our way onto the stage and approached our respective poles, the spotlight engulfed us, signaling the commencement of the dance.

My heart raced, each beat echoing the desire to retreat, to shield my exposed body from the scrutinizing gaze.

Dressed in a blue sheer lace bralette paired with a matching lace thong and a transparent plastic micro mini skirt, I felt an unprecedented level of exposure. The skirt barely reached below my buttocks, offering little concealment and amplifying my vulnerability under the unrelenting lights of the stage.

Kiss and the other girl wore variations of the revealing outfits, each donning different colors that accentuated their unique styles. Kiss flaunted red lingerie, matching the platform heels that mirrored mine but in a vibrant red. Meanwhile, the other girl showcased pink lingerie complemented by black platform boots identical to ours.

As the music began, initiating our routine, my heart threatened to escape my chest. Every move, meticulously rehearsed, now felt alien in the glaring spotlight.

My breaths came in rapid succession, a sheen of sweat coating my skin. The scrutinizing gazes of the audience intensified the pressure.

Executing the practiced pole jump and twirl, legs gracefully aloft, proved more challenging than anticipated. Summoning every ounce of strength, I clung to the pole, determined to avoid a humiliating fall.

The atmosphere was electric, with money raining down, predominantly directed at Kiss, bathed in the brighter lights. Our spots were dimmer, a minor detail in the grand spectacle.

As the song approached its climax, I found myself on the right side of Kiss, engaging in a provocative dance around the pole. With the last twenty seconds earmarked for freestyle, I leaned into my love for heel dancing, a skill that had once been a source of joy.

Bending my knees and swaying my hips in rhythm, an unexpected surge of bills flooded the stage, and the spotlight shifted from Kiss to me. The intensified attention spiked my nerves, yet I maintained my composure, deliberately avoiding eye contact with the audience, fixating on only one person in the room.

In the electrifying ambiance, my gaze found the man who had captivated my attention. Seated with an air of both danger and allure, his eyes locked onto me with an intensity that sent shivers down my spine.

Draped in shades of brown and beige, he seemed like he had just stepped out of a formal setting. His companion leaned in, sharing a secret, but the man remained silent, maintaining his enigmatic demeanor.

With a final flourish of sensuality, I flipped my hair and caressed my body, bringing my hands up to bite my nail. The performance reached its climax with a last, lingering hip sway as the song concluded-a culmination of the longest twenty seconds in my life.

I felt a mix of satisfaction and discomfort as the rain of money continued. My subtle smile concealed the true nature of my emotions-it wasn't the performance I relished; it was the promise of substantial earnings that brought satisfaction.

Upon opening my eyes, I found the man I had fixated on during those crucial seconds of the dance. However, his gaze had shifted from intense to an unsettling blend of danger and creepiness. Chilled to the bone, I hastily retreated from the stage, leaving behind the haunting intensity of his stare.

T A E H Y U N G

"Deathtrap?" I called out for my daughter the moment I entered her room. There she was, peacefully asleep in her bed. Despite being drenched in the president's blood, my first instinct was to approach her.

As I moved closer, I couldn't resist admiring her innocent face, still in the tranquility of sleep. Even with the gruesome scene I had just come from, the sight of her brought a mix of relief and tenderness.

Her eyes gently fluttered open as she sensed my presence. "Daddy?" she greeted with an immediate, heartwarming smile. Swiftly tossing the blankets aside, I noticed her spear lying next to her on the bed.

"Deathtrap, why are you sleeping with your spear beside you?" I inquired, reaching down to pick up the weapon and placing it carefully under her bed.

Indeed, I gifted her a spear for her sixth birthday - a seemingly innocent toy to outsiders, but the arrow it held concealed a potential for significant harm.

"Why do you keep the spear by your side, Deathtrap?" I asked her.

"So I can kill another monster when it comes," she replied. Curiosity led me to inquire further, "Have you managed to defeat the one you encountered before?"

"Yes, but it turns out it was the creepy Cinderella doll Uncle Kook gave me for my eighth birthday," she explained, leaping off the bed. Rushing to her closet, she retrieved the disfigured Cinderella doll.

"Did you do that?" I inquired.

"Yes. How dare this thing try to scare me," she responded, tossing the disfigured Cinderella doll into a little trash basket. "Oh, my poisonous cactus..." I smiled in satisfaction. She was turning out just as I intended.

My eight-year-old daughter, REALITY. I had her when I was twenty years old from a one-night stand that turned into a pregnancy. Turns out a woman can get pregnant from pre-cum.

When I first learned about the pregnancy, I was initially skeptical. However, when the woman mentioned considering an abortion if I didn't want the baby, a sudden desire to have her overwhelmed me. Unfortunately, the poor woman passed away during Reality's childbirth.

DNA testing wasn't necessary because Reality resembled the female version of me when she was born. She is the apple of my eye, the sole reason I continue to exist, the force that prevents the world from feeling unbearable.

I named her Reality Kim with the hope that she would embody a harshness even beyond reality itself. While reality is often considered the harshest, I desire for her to personify that exact sentiment.

I aspired for her to be ruthless.

I aspired for her to be fearless.

I aspired for her to be Maleficent.

My approach to parenting was distinct from the conventional methods. I aimed to expose my daughter to the harsh and cold realities of the world from a young age.

I didn't conceal my profession from her; she knew I was a hitman, and she was aware that what I do is considered morally wrong. However, she is astute enough to comprehend that people adopt diverse strategies for survival.

This was my method.

She was remarkably understanding and intelligent for her age.

Just like her daddy.

"Daddy, whose blood is this?" She pointed to my blood-stained white shirt. "The president's," I stated. "Daddy is so cool. I want to be like you when I grow up. Can I be like you?" She asked and cutely pouted.

"Of course, you can! When you turn sixteen, you'll have a test to determine if you can be a hired killer. Once you pass, you'll have your first kill." I explained to her, and she nodded.

"Okay, Daddy. When I turn sixteen, I'll have my first kill." She let out cheerfully.

That's my daughter.

"But remember that what happens in our house, stays in the house," I said. "Of course, Daddy, If they ask me what you do in school, I'll say you're a project manager. I won't let them know that Daddy is an awesome supervillain." She smiled.

"It's almost morning, let's watch some cartoons and get you ready for school."

AUTHOR'S NOTE
I was going to start updating on the 12th of July but I just can't wait so I'm updating now. I'll probably be updating everyday because I want to finish this book by the end of August.