"Shattered Reflections: A Neon Atrium Mystery"

By noon, the club was a puzzle waiting for her hands to fit the pieces together. Sunlight filtered through the skylights above the dancefloor, illuminating motes of dust that spun in lazy spirals. Cass Mendez loved this time, when Neon Atrium was silent as a cathedral: no music, no laughter, just her own footsteps echoing against polished tile. With every morning came a sense of purpose—especially since her sister Lily vanished without a trace, two years and four months ago.

Cass clutched her clipboard close as she strode to the storeroom, glancing at the shelves lined with imported vodka, syrup bottles, and crisp boxes of limes. She began her ritual: counting bottles, checking expiration dates, scanning for gaps. Cognac—one case short. Tequila—full. She tallied the openers, cocktail shakers, acoustic batteries, and clean napkins; all just as she left them. Each click of her pen was punctuated with murmured numbers. Bartenders’ duty rosters were scrawled on the chalkboard beside the bar, and she cross-checked each one, making notes for herself: remind Jace to come in early, double-layer the ice buckets, calibrate the soundboard.

It was a discipline edging on compulsion, but habit was all she had. She flicked on the light behind the bar, running her hand along the brass rail as she moved down the counter. She unlocked the coolers, counting bottles, letting her eyes slide over to the mirrored wall. For a moment, the glass gleamed pure—then refracted her. A shadowed woman in deep black. Her own eyes stared back, daring her not to blink.

Her phone vibrated, dragging her from reflection. A reminder from her calendar: “Lily’s birthday.” Without thinking, she pulled up her photos. On the screen, a sunbeam smiled, Lily’s mouth open in a laugh while she leaned over the club’s half-finished balcony. Cass could almost hear her voice—“C’mon, sis, live a little!”—but the words turned to static as memories pressed against her chest.

It all hit with force—the hope that still flickered in her dreams, the way the world had warped into shadows after Lily’s disappearance. No note, no warning, no body. Just a hole.

Air roared in her lungs. The club, so safe and ordered, tilted. Without realizing, her hands trembled as she grabbed a row of glasses to polish for the evening rush—her mother’s barback trick, mindless and soothing. But as she thought of Lily’s laugh—how she used to joke about the club’s name, how she’d vanish into the back with a friend—Cass’s grip slipped. A glass shattered on the counter. Splinters of crystal skittered across the floor.

She swore, dropping another glass in her panic. One after another, they slipped—her hands too slick, her mind too distant. The sound was like rainfall of breaking stars. Cass pressed her hands to her face, feeling hot tears leaking down, her breath growing ragged. She choked against a sob, chest heaving, the club spinning around her. For a few seconds, everything was just the echo of her own gasps and the crunch of broken glass.

With a shudder, she gritted her teeth and forced herself up. She was the boss—she could not come undone, even if her heart threatened mutiny. She swept the shards of glass into a dustpan, each tinkling piece another beat of memory, and dumped them in the bin.

Cass hurried into her office, slamming the door behind her, letting herself collapse into her desk chair. Her arms wrapped around her stomach as she rocked gently back and forth. Behind stained-glass windows, the city moved on, indifferent to anguish. She closed her eyes, inhaling, exhaling—counting ten heartbeats, then twenty, until her breathing steadied.

Muffled, urgent knocks sounded on the door. “Cass, you okay?” came Jace’s voice, kind but cautious.

“I’m fine,” she lied, wiping her cheeks dry.

The desk calendar was a brand-new month, but she couldn’t bring herself to tear off yesterday’s page. A stack of lyric sheets from last weekend’s DJ set and a flyer for tonight’s event stared up at her. Neon Night—she’d booked Dalia, Lily’s favorite local DJ. Cass forced herself to check the sound system report, the emails, the security footage from last night. Everything in order. She almost picked up her phone again, to send one of those desperate texts she’d sent every week—Hey Lily, love you, please come home—but her fingers stilled.

Instead, she stood, smoothed her skirt, and found the mask she’d learned to wear. She checked the guest list, ordered a backup cake for the party, and emailed security a final memo on crowd control. By five, she was out in the main room, giving instructions, running hands over sleek countertops and gleaming LED lights.

As the crew began to set up, Cass took one last look at the heavy club doors, shrouded in neon. She straightened her shoulders, telling herself she’d survive the night and every one after, if only to keep the club going—a beacon amid the unresolved darkness.

She might never get Lily back. But this—Neon Atrium, beating heart and brittle glass—would endure, its lights never going out, not so long as Cass had the strength to keep searching, and keep the party going.

This story was generated by user ziggo.zane with assistance by one of OpenAI’s large-scale language-generation model; prompts used to help generate the story are shown below.

Images were generated with OpenAI's AI system, DALL·E 2, or uploaded by the user.

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