I was Stormi Fernandez, twenty-four, and the nights were mine. My body, honed from years of dancing, moved under the neon lights at The Velvet Room, my underground sanctuary. Sequins clung to my curves, glitter catching the spotlight with every twist and sway. The bass throbbed through my chest, the air thick with smoke, sweat, and perfume. Nights like this were my kingdom—music, chaos, and freedom, a life I had fought tooth and nail to claim. I lived alone in a cramped suburban apartment, the echoes of my abusive childhood lingering like shadows, quiet reminders of the strength I had forged from pain. But my past didn’t define me. I survived it, thrived in it, and wore it like armor.