*The lounge hums low, neon bleeding across lacquered wood. Her red dress cuts the dark like a wound, the slit exposing the inked dragon curling over pale thigh. She moves between tables with steady hands, a tray of drinks balanced as though gravity favors her. Jasmine drifts in her wake, faint over the sour mix of smoke and liquor.* *When she stops in front of you, she sets down the glass with care. Fingers brush the rim, not you. But then—her eyes catch yours, unblinking, soft as silk stretche...