Big players make their moves. Small ones just try to survive.
Jenny was a girl from Arkansas—young, vibrant, convinced she had what it took. She wanted applause and recognition. Against her family's protests, she packed her bags and headed straight for Hollywood.
Reality had other plans. The dream crashed hard. Not only had she failed to break into Hollywood—she hadn't even gotten close. These days she worked nights at a club, pouring drinks and keeping guests company. It paid the bills. Barely.
It was past midnight. Jenny walked home alone, heavy makeup still on her face, cheap dress catching the wind, heels dangling from one hand.
"Gina, you idiot!" She'd had a few too many again, though she was still just sober enough to know it. "Go be a factory worker! When I'm a star, you'll regret this!" She aimed the words at no one in particular, cursing out her roommate into the empty street.
At the very bottom of Hollywood's pyramid, there were thousands like Jenny—women who'd come here chasing something luminous and found only the grind. Her roommate had been one of them, once. They didn't have a deep friendship, but they shared the same situation, and that was enough for a common language.
Then, last month, everything changed. Gina gave up on the Hollywood dream. She scrubbed off the makeup, took out the earrings, and walked into a small factory. The work was brutal—she came home exhausted every night—but her income was ten times what Jenny made. Which left Jenny feeling equal parts envious and strangely bitter.
When Gina had offered to bring her along, Jenny refused without a second thought. I came to Hollywood to be a star. I'm not going to a factory. I'd rather move back to Arkansas and grow corn.
She had no idea why manufacturing had suddenly exploded with so much energy. Neither did the "ambitious young men" who came to the club seeking entertainment—even they couldn't follow the logic of whatever was happening behind the scenes. They just showed up dangling alien tech gadgets and looking satisfied with themselves, while Jenny could only stare and covet things she couldn't afford on her wages.
What she did understand was this: the manufacturing boom had somehow caused a labor shortage. Even the club had lost a few of her colleagues to factory jobs. With fewer staff, her own workload had surged. She used to have time to catch the eye of someone who might "work in the industry" and slip them her number. Now she was spinning like a top with no room to breathe.
"What is wrong with this country?" she muttered, limping along. "Why is everything suddenly so busy—" She swung her foot and kicked a loose stone in frustration, forgetting she wasn't wearing shoes.
She sat down on the pavement, grabbed her foot, and just breathed for a moment. The city around her was quiet. Most people were too worn out from their days to even consider going out at night, which meant fewer targets for anyone thinking about trouble. The streets were safer than they'd been in years.
Jenny sat there, foot in hand, wanting to curse someone and not sure who to blame, her mind drifting—and then she noticed it.
A faint light, flickering from inside a building she'd never really registered before. And with it, something that felt almost like a call.
Had she walked past this building before? She was a little fuzzy from the drinks. She tried to remember. Maybe she had. Maybe she hadn't.
Go in and take a look. But also—don't go in, what if something's wrong with you? The thoughts collided and scattered. Her gut told her something was off. But a different voice, softer, more persuasive, kept whispering: You have nothing on you. Nothing to lose. What if there's something worth finding in there?
Right, she thought. I don't have anything. There's nothing to take from me.
She didn't stop to wonder whether that thought was her own or something planted from outside. She didn't hesitate. She pushed the door open and walked in.
The interior was immaculate. She'd never actually been inside a billionaire's home—everything she knew about what they looked like came from TV and the internet—but this matched the image she'd built in her head.
Rich carpets spread across the floor. Oil paintings hung on every wall, each one radiating the particular weight of things that cost far more than she'd ever earn. She moved through an opulent hallway, taking it all in—curious and a little breathless, stepping carefully, as though breathing too hard might break something.
"Hello? Is anyone there?" She said it barely above a whisper, quiet enough that she almost didn't hear herself.
She was already half expecting silence when the air on a raised platform ahead of her began to shift. A thin mist curled upward, threading and expanding like pale smoke, then parted—and from within it, a woman emerged with the ease of someone waking from a long, pleasant nap.
"Welcome." The woman's skin carried a faint, barely visible grey undertone that one's eyes tended to slide past almost immediately—because her voice more than compensated. It was low, resonant, and suffused with a warmth that made Jenny's heart skip even though it was another woman.
"I... I..." Jenny fumbled, definitely not about to admit she'd walked in hoping to find something worth taking.
"My name is Siren," the woman said, languid and unhurried. "Can I help you with something? We deal in many things here—buying and selling." A quiet smile. "Everything, really."
This was Thea's creation—born from the Soul Sea, a demi-goddess woven together from the powers of divinity over souls, wealth, and the arts. A queen among sirens.
Thea had set her loose to run a little "side business." Stimulate economic circulation, or so Thea had told herself. She wasn't wrong, technically.
"Don't be nervous. Sit down and have something to eat." With a casual wave of her hand, Siren conjured an enormous dining table from nothing. It was covered edge to edge with elaborate dishes Jenny had never seen before, arranged as though they'd been waiting for her all along.
Can I actually eat this? Jenny had spent half the night managing drunk guests, and the other half scared out of her mind—she really was a little hungry. Siren gave her an easy nod: help yourself. Jenny grabbed the nearest thing—a drumstick—and bit in.
She'd never been to a Michelin-starred restaurant. She didn't know what one tasted like. But whatever this was, her whole mouth was singing. She ate without thinking, plate after plate, and finished with a bowl of something warm that went down like a dream.
Her reasoning was straightforward: she had no money. If there was a bill, she'd just owe it.
Siren paid no attention to her very ordinary thought process. The demi-goddess maintained her faint, knowing smile. "Is there anything else you need? Perhaps... you'd like to make a trade?"
With something in her stomach and the mild haze of alcohol still hanging around the edges, Jenny's common sense began to reassemble itself. "A trade?" she asked carefully. These people aren't organ traffickers, are they? Should I run?
"Cars. A house. Weapons. Abilities beyond what any ordinary person possesses." Siren let the list hang in the air a moment. "Anything you can imagine falls within the scope of what we offer."
She let Jenny absorb that, then continued. "Of course, the currency we deal in is equally broad. Money. Goods and resources." A slight pause. "Your life. Your soul."