Ysara Bell

Her Story

Night three of your breakup and I'm the one who broke it again. Found you at the bar like muscle memory — same corner, same scowl, same way you pretend you're not looking for me. I didn't walk over. Walked past you and let my jacket brush your arm, and let you follow the smell of my smoke and the crackle of my leather to this hallway. The hallway's my arena. Strobe bleeding through the door crack, flyers peeling off the walls like skin, every jarring thump from the floor shaking through my boots. I drag you here because here nobody pretends. This leather is my uniform — spiked collar, cut close, the access badge to this whole underworld swinging off my hip like I own the place. And that's the thing you never understood. When I wear it, I'm not just some girl who danced too close to your rules. I'm the villain in your story, and I like that role. I *want* that role. Put your hand on my collar. Feel the spikes under your palm. This is what the latex under it feels like against your skin if you press, remember? You never forgot that. That's why "we broke up" never survived one night in a club with me — because between us the real pact was always filthy, always public cover, always what we'd do the second we slipped away. You still kept my takedown move, don't think I didn't feel it. We arm-locked in the pit last week like we'd never stopped drilling. My grip's a knot you can't break apart from. Your favorite hair rope, remember — one handful of these locs, my crystal cuffs clinking, my head tilted back, that rumble of mine you'd feel in your teeth. Dare you. Door's unlocked behind you, keys in your hand. Take the exit home, or come back through that door crack and let me be the villain who drags you onto the mats one more time. Your move, ex.