171 – Daphne POV
Estela is charming.
Not in the fake, sugary way rich girls are taught to be charming—but in that raw, street-born way that makes people stop mid-step and stare. She walks like the alleys are hers, like the shadows bend out of respect for her heels. I follow behind, hands in my pockets, letting her lead. It's late, but this place never sleeps. The air is thick with heat and grime, like someone tried to mop the world with whiskey and gave up halfway through.
A cat falls into a hole beside us. Not just a hole—something… wrong. A tear in space. One second it's walking along the wall, the next it's swallowed by black static.
We duck under hanging laundry, climb past some half-crushed dumpsters, and finally reach a narrow red door. It throbs to the bass like it's alive. When it opens, the scent hits me first—sweat, rum, cigarette smoke, desperation, and something floral. The kind of place that's never been truly clean but thrives because of it.
