Private Wait...Did..Did you just say Vampires?!?

[Chelsee Gray]

Basslines curled like smoke through the cavernous lounge, weaving through the cologne of off-world nobles and the sharp ozone bite of Nar Shaddaa’s upper-atmo pollutants. Neon veins ran through the walls like stained glass cracked open by something divine and indulgent. On stage, a dancer spun fire into silk. In the balcony, secrets traded hands in whispers. And in the shadows near the curved stairwell, Chelsee Gray leaned against a pillar, untouched by the light.​

She didn’t wait. She watched.
Like a predator at rest. Or a goddess mid-sigh.

Her body was still, impossibly still—the kind of stillness only time can teach, or trauma can carve. Every dancer moved with purpose, heat, or rebellion. Chelsee moved with none of those. She floated when she walked, like gravity simply found her optional.​

 

[Arq*]

Arq's voice cut through her trance over the comms:

"Velvet Flame, booth seven wants a ghost. I told them we had you."

 

[Chelsee Gray]

Chelsee smiled. Just barely.

She stepped off the wall, heels clicking against the glitter-frosted tiles like polite gunshots. Her dress—a second skin of sheer black mesh and velvet curves—whispered with every movement, drawing glances like static draws sparks. A few of the girls tensed as she passed. Not out of fear. Out of something worse: not knowing what to feel.

Ravvi offered a warm nod. Jemma rolled her eyes.
Solah bit her lip and looked away.

Chelsee didn't mind.
You didn't live for 150 years without learning that affection was always earned. Sometimes through kindness. Sometimes through fear.

She reached booth seven.

Inside sat a Sullustan with a glitter-jacket, two twi'lek investors, and someone who smelled too much like spice to be sober. Chelsee's voice was silk and razors.

"You asked for a ghost.
I'm afraid I'm far more… complicated."

They didn't recognize the chill behind her words. Most never did. They laughed. She smiled.
And somewhere far below—deep in her cliffside manor where red moons kissed the ocean—her next vial of blood waited on ice.

But for now, she danced.

 

[Chelsee Gray]

Later that same night - The bass continued....


Not hard—precise. Like the snap of a jeweled collar around the neck of a willing sinner.


Chelsee stood in the center of the stage, arms raised like a marionette cutting her own strings. Lights traced her outline in deep red and ultraviolet, bathing her in a twilight that made her appear carved from shadow and starlight. The Veil knew drama, knew glamor—but what Chelsee brought tonight was something else.

Ritual.

She didn't rehearse the routine. She felt it. Every movement was memory and metaphor—each gesture a resurrection. One hand traced down her own collarbone, slow and deliberate. The other gripped the edge of her corset, dragging across it as if drawing blood with her fingertips.

Behind her, the music throbbed like a slow, seductive heartbeat.
The audience forgot to breathe.

She dropped to her knees. Arched. Twisted. Rose.

Then—she turned her gaze on them.

Violet eyes met the room. Not scanning. Not inviting. Consuming.

People applauded, but softly—like interrupting her would be sacrilege.
And when the final note hit, and she stood in silence—chin high, chest still rising from effort—the room erupted.

Thunder.

 

[Arq*]

From the balcony, Arq clapped like a storm. Not performative. Not curated.
Real.
His sequined robe sparkled in the spotlight, and his grin was somewhere between maternal pride and unholy worship.

"That," he bellowed over the din, "is how you murder with elegance, darlings. Take notes, or take a seat."

 

[Chelsee Gray]

Backstage, Ravvi blinked slowly, lips parted.

"She doesn't even try to be liked," she muttered.

Solah stood next to her, arms crossed tightly over her chest. Her voice came out a little too quiet to be neutral.
"She doesn't need to be liked."

They watched as Chelsee descended from the stage—not rushed, not elated. Just… still. Like the performance had taken nothing from her, or maybe everything.

She passed the other dancers without comment. Her long black gloves glimmered with micro-rubies, absorbing the light like hungry velvet.

In the dressing room, Chelsee sat before the mirror, dabbing at her neck with a chilled cloth. A little performance sweat—theatrical, not real. She didn't perspire. But appearances mattered.

 

[Arq*]

Arq swept in, flanked by spark droids, a flurry of perfume and power.

"My velvet flame," he cooed, setting a drink beside her. "Do you know what you've done?"

 

[Chelsee Gray]

She tilted her head, lips curved faintly. "Aside from giving the crowd a reason to forget their guilt for five minutes?"

 

[Arq*]

Arq leaned in, whispering with reverence.


"You've reminded them what danger looks like in silk."


He kissed her forehead—gently, like an offering to something ancient—and vanished as quickly as he arrived.

 

[Chelsee Gray]

Later That Night

The dancers filtered out, laughing, chattering, decompressing.
Solah lingered near the lockers, pretending to sort through earrings she didn't wear. Ravvi hovered closer.

Chelsee, brushing her hair into a smooth cascade of black, caught their stares in the mirror.

"Curious," she said. "Or cautious?"

Ravvi stepped forward. "Both."

There was no hostility in her voice. Only wonder. "That dance… it wasn't just a routine, was it?"

Chelsee considered. Then turned fully toward her.

"No," she said simply. "It was a memory."

Solah finally stepped closer. "And the part at the end? Where you looked at the crowd like…" She faltered.

"Like they were prey?" Chelsee finished.

The room went still.

Then she smiled. Not cruelly. Not kindly.
Just… truthfully.

"It's how I remind myself I'm still in control."

Ravvi shivered. Solah didn't speak—but something changed in her eyes.
She wasn't afraid.

She was drawn.

---

Hours Later – The Manor

Wind screamed against the jagged cliffs outside. Chelsee's cliffside estate loomed like a fossil from a forgotten time—twisted spires, shattered balconies, vines like veins curling over stone.

Inside, the manor was colder than Nar Shaddaa's underlevels. But she didn't notice. The silence comforted her. She crossed the marble floor barefoot, letting the emptiness speak.

In the cellar, a single vial waited under stasis glow.

Chelsee uncorked it slowly, sipping from it like one might a glass of fine wine.

The taste wasn't pleasant. It was… familiar. Metallic. Rooted in the past.
But it kept the hunger away.

Just enough.

She stared out the window into the night. Lights from The Gilded Veil shimmered in the far distance.

Behind her reflection in the glass, she caught sight of something else.
Ravvi's face. Curious. Solah's silhouette. Lingering.

And in her chest, the long-dead thing that still dared to hope stirred—just for a moment.

 

[Chelsee Gray]

The Next night

The Gilded Veil opened like a secret that wanted to be told.


The walls shimmered with gold and violet lighting. Synth-flute wove between the beats, teasing tension into the air like perfume no one could name. The guests came in waves—richer than the night before, hungrier than usual, and unknowingly walking into a web they couldn't see.


Ravvi watched Chelsee arrive.


She came in through the back entrance, as always—draped in a thin, long coat over a dark garnet bodysuit and open-weave skirt that trailed like shadow. Her hair was twisted back tonight, exposing the lines of her throat and collarbone. Vulnerable, some might say.


But Ravvi saw it now.
There was nothing vulnerable about her.


Solah leaned close, pretending to powder her cheeks in the vanity mirror.


"She doesn't flinch," she murmured.


Ravvi nodded. "She doesn't blink."

 

[Arq*]

Arq passed behind them in a swirl of chartreuse silks and shoulder feathers. "Careful, darlings," he purred without stopping. "Stare too long at the night, and the night might wink back."

 

[Chelsee Gray]

Onstage

Chelsee stepped into the light like it had been waiting for her.

Tonight's piece was slower, less theatrical than the night before—more intimate. Her body swayed as if entranced by the sound, her arms folding and unfolding like seafoam dragged back by a rising tide. Her eyes never settled on the crowd.

Until they did.

A Trandoshan in a high-collared maroon jacket sat too close to the edge of the stage, the scent of overpaid cologne and spice mixing with cheap bravado. He wasn't just watching. He was reaching.

One clawed hand brushed against her ankle during a floor spin.

Solah's breath caught backstage.

Ravvi stood up.

But Chelsee didn't break rhythm. She pivoted, danced closer, leaning down into the edge of the stage until she was inches from the man's face. Her voice slid out like velvet smoke:

"You want more? Eighty credits.
Meet me by the red curtain in five."

He blinked. Then smiled. Sloppy. Unaware he was stepping into something colder than the Nar Shaddaa night.