The first time Sasha saw the Kane Collective perform, she understood why tickets cost more than most people earned in a month. The old vaudeville theater had been gutted and reborn as a cathedral of shadows and red velvet. No seats on the floor, only a ring of low couches and ottomans where the audience reclined like Roman emperors. The stage was a circle of black glass lit from beneath, turning every drop of sweat into liquid ruby.
Victor had kept her blindfolded in the wings until the house lights died. When the silk fell away, the troupe was already moving. Twelve bodies, naked except for intricate harnesses of thin gold chain that caught the strobes like lightning frozen mid-flash. The choreography was viciously beautiful: lifts that ended with teeth on throats, spins that left welts
