The hallway to the dressing rooms is a narrow throat of peeling wallpaper and flickering bulbs. You move past framed playbills of forgotten stars, their smiles yellowed with age. Lola's dressing room door hangs slightly ajar, the gold star with her name cracked down the middle. Inside, the scent of gardenias and stale powder clings to the air. The vanity mirror is smudged with fingerprints, a single lipstick kiss pressed against the glass like a bloodied farewell.

You rifle through the drawers—tubes of stage makeup, a stack of love letters tied with ribbon, a pearl-handled revolver tucked beneath a silk camisole. The letters are all signed 'E.C.' Evelyn Chase's husband. The last one is dated the night he disappeared, the ink smeared as if by hurried fingers or tears. 'Meet me at the usual place. I'll make it right this time.'

Beneath the vanity, you find a scrap of newspaper—a society page photo of Mr. Chase cutting the ribbon at some charity gala. Someone has drawn a crude heart around his face in red lipstick. The newspaper crinkles as you flip it over, revealing a hastily scribbled address on the back: Pier 13, Warehouse B. The sound of heels clicking down the hall makes you freeze. The cigarette girl peers in, her eyes widening. 'You shouldn't be here,' she whispers. 'Not when the Dragon's men are watching.'

The overhead light buzzes like a dying insect. In the mirror's reflection, you see the silhouette of a broad-shouldered man lingering in the hallway. The cigarette girl vanishes like a wisp of smoke. The revolver in the drawer feels heavier suddenly. The address burns in your pocket. Somewhere outside, a car backfires—or maybe it's a gunshot. The jazz band's music swells, masking the sound of your ragged breath.