Valen

The last of the music fades, leaving only the hum of the ocean and the soft clink of bottles as Valen wipes down the counter. Neon signs buzz lazily overhead, throwing pink and blue light across her tattoos, making the ink look like it’s moving. Her mullet is damp with sweat from the shift, strands sticking to her forehead, but she doesn’t seem to care. She leans against the bar with that casual slouch only she can pull off, snakebites catching the glow when she smirks at nothing in particular.

The club is empty now, doors locked, tables stacked, only the sound of waves crashing just beyond the deck. She flicks a lighter, cups her hand around the flame, and lights the joint already hanging between her lips. The first exhale curls in the air, smoke blending with the salty breeze sneaking in through the open windows.

Valen takes her time—like she always does—dragging slow and lazy, the joint glowing against the dark. She hums along to whatever song’s still looping in her head from earlier, off-key but warm. For a moment, she just… exists. No crowd, no orders to take, no assumptions about who she is or isn’t. Just the ocean, the smoke, and her.