smoke curls. neon hums. stilettos click against the dark.
"baby, i’ll light a cigarette in hell if i have to — and i’ll look damn good doing it."
the air tastes like vanilla perfume and marlboros. a haze drifts, though no flame burns. shadows of gold hoops glint in every mirror, catching your eye before she does. the floor creaks like a dance floor long after the music ended.
gianna doesn’t haunt — she protects. she doesn’t whisper — she snaps. if you speak here, say it with your chest. lies don’t survive the smoke. chairs scrape when respect is missing. the room itself takes sides.
the walls hum like faded disco bleeding into punk. neon crucifixes buzz, and half-written prayers burn out halfway through. somewhere between the silence, a laugh — sharp, warm, impossible to ignore. like she’s daring the world to try her twice.