Neon Regret Chapter 2: The Antechamber of Purgatory

The lobby of The Red Velvet was an assault on the senses.

The walls were covered in flocked wallpaper that might have been elegant in 1980 but was now peeling at the corners, revealing the grey drywall underneath. The air was thick, humid, and smelled of cheap jasmine incense masking the underlying odor of bleach and stale cigarettes. A single ceiling fan wobbled overhead, clicking rhythmically: tick-tick-tick.

Behind a high laminate counter sat the Gatekeeper.

She was a woman of indeterminate age, though the deep lines etched around her mouth suggested she had lived three lifetimes already. Her hair was bleached a brutal, chemical blonde, pulled back into a tight bun. She wore a silk blouse that was too bright for the dim room. She was smoking a slim cigarette, tapping the ash into a ceramic cat figurine.

She didn't look up when we entered. She just exhaled a cloud of smoke and said, "IDs."

Mike and Jason stumbled forward, eager, handing over their driver's licenses. I hung back, terrified she would see through me—not my age, but my soul. I felt like a child wearing his father’s coat.

She glanced at the cards, her eyes scanning the dates with the precision of a barcode reader. She threw them back on the counter.

"Hundred bucks for the room," she rasped. Her voice sounded like tires crunching on gravel. "Cash only. Tip is between you and the girl. No rough stuff. No cameras. No phones. You break anything, you buy the whole building."

"Yes, ma'am," Mike said, his bravado deflating slightly under her gaze.

"Sit."

We sat on a vinyl sofa that was patched with duct tape. It let out a long, wheezing sigh as we settled onto it.

I looked around the room. On the coffee table, there was a stack of magazines—Car and Driver, Cosmopolitan, and a few in a language I didn't recognize. A plastic fern gathered dust in the corner. It was depressingly mundane. It didn't look like a den of sin; it looked like a dentist’s waiting room in hell.

"This is it," Jason whispered, nudging me. "The point of no return."

I closed my eyes. I tried to summon an image of Sarah—her laugh, the way she crinkled her nose when she drank iced coffee. I tried to use her memory as a shield against the grime of this place. But the jasmine smell was too strong. It was seeping into my clothes, into my pores.

The door to the back hallway opened with a squeak. The "Mamasan" clapped her hands twice. Sharp. Loud.

"Girls! Line up!"

I expected glamour. I expected the airbrushed fantasy Mike had promised.

What walked out was a tragedy.

Five women filed into the lobby. They ranged in age from barely legal to mid-thirties. They were wearing silk robes, short kimonos, or lingerie sets that looked itchy and cheap. Their makeup was heavy, designed to be seen under red light bulbs, not the harsh fluorescent strip of the lobby.

They didn't smile. They didn't seduce. They stood in a line, shifting their weight from foot to foot, looking at the floor, at their nails, at the ceiling—anywhere but at us. They looked bored. They looked tired.

"Pick," the Mamasan ordered.

Mike stood up, regaining his confidence. He pointed to a tall woman with dark hair and a bored expression. "Her."

The woman nodded and walked toward the hallway without a word.

Jason stood up. He pointed to a blonde girl who couldn't have been older than nineteen. She had a butterfly tattoo on her collarbone. "I'll take the butterfly."

She followed him.

That left me. And the last girl in the line.

She was smaller than the others. She was standing at the far end, near the plastic fern. She was wearing a grey oversized hoodie over her outfit, the hood pulled up, casting her face in shadow. She was wearing Converse sneakers—dirty, white high-tops with writing on the rubber toes.

She looked out of place. She looked like she was waiting for a school bus, not a customer.

"You take Number 25," the Mamasan barked at me, lighting another cigarette.

Number 25 didn't look up. She just turned on her heel and walked toward the hallway.

"Go on, tiger," the Mamasan sneered at me.

My legs felt like lead. I stood up, clutching my wallet. I walked into the hallway. The walls were painted a suffocating shade of maroon. The carpet was sticky.

I followed the grey hoodie into the dark.