The neon sign for Elektrick pulsed a blinding, high-voltage violet onto the rain-slicked pavement, a thumping luxury club that smelled of expensive cologne, dry ice, and privilege. The moment Roxy kicked the heavy glass doors open, she didn't try to soften her edge to fit the upscale crowd; instead, she let her raw, rugged presence slice straight through the center of the room. Her red eyes swept the multi-tiered dance floor in a quick, instinctive tactical sweep, her platinum hair gleaming like ice under the flashing strobe lights. Her cropped leather jacket, ripped jeans, and combat boots stood out like a raised fist against the sea of designer silk and tailored blazers, but she didn't give a damn—she carried herself with the unshakeable swagger of a ten-year veteran who owned the grid, making the wealthy civilian regulars look soft by comparison. As she walked toward the main bar, the thick steel bangles on her wrists clinked with a heavy, metallic ring that cut right through the driving electronic bass, forcing people to step aside and make room for her.

She slid onto a sleek, backlit quartz stool, letting out a rough, gravelly chuckle that made the high-end mixologist look up twice. Slamming a crisp hundred-dollar bill onto the pristine counter, she disrupted the rhythm of the place by barking out an order for a double shot of straight rye whiskey instead of a trendy cocktail, her eyes already locking onto a handsome, clean-cut guy in a tailored linen shirt a few feet away. She leaned back, crossing her muscular arms and sprawling her legs out comfortably, completely unfazed by the wealthy vibe of the venue. With ten grand of pure freedom burning a hole in her pocket and eighteen months of cage-dirt to wash out of her throat, Elektrick was the ultimate playground—and she had all the cash and confidence she needed to dominate it.