Author's Note: The Regular and Hypnotic were originally meant for a modern Miami story. However, I felt the need to change it and reword it. Genma is the mysterious man who requests her night after night. He's a criminal and she's his ex-employer's daughter. I figured I'd get that out of the way. These two chapters weren't going to be apart of Tsunamis but I couldn't help myself. There might be a part 3, or hell, part 4.. it simply depends on it.

It began as a job. Not any normal job but the type of job that you changed everything about you and when the lights went low, you began to peel back layers and you exposed yourself for your worth. Another pretty face that got lost in the crowd of people. You couldn't stand out, you blended in. You took that job and sucked it into your being and became that other personality that you created. You were no longer that sweet and innocent little girl that your ungrateful father should have raised, to have that simple knowledge of weapons and combat, no, you had matured and you knew it. Night after night, you sold your soul to devils – devils who promised the world but never delivered. With their calloused palms and fingertips that always seemed to try and reach through the wall of glass that protected you. It was disgusting work but in the end, she did it anyway.

Boy, would her mother be pissed to know where all those ballet lessons had gotten her daughter. The pivot stance did nothing but helped her collect ones, fives, tens and twenties. She didn't want the attention of those men who came night, after night, asking her to 'entertain' them from the seclusion of her little glass box. She never looked at them; their manly hands pushing them ruffle of bills through the metal slot in the middle of her invisible wall. It had become a habit – to watch her feet. Point-heel-turn-dip-hip sway, on and on, it went. Why had she even agreed to come to this place? She had left the safety net of her own wealth and had ended up in another broke down fucking back ass town; forever nursing that broken heart.

Some told her to get over it. Some told her that her mind-set was fucked. Others told her to dance to her heart's content. Whatever she decided wouldn't bring him to her or anywhere around her. Leaving Miami had been a huge but ill-fated step. Even now, as she stood on the other side of that metal door, Tenten pressed a thick hip into the threshold. Slender fingers slid expertly through the fold of paper, dark gray eyes sharp and focused. Her thoughts were lost to the wind when the light above her head went off, flashing red. It seemed like the evenings went on and on.

You should pick up and move.. why are you running? Who are you running from? What are you running to? Tentennn..

She let a hiss out. Ringlets of dark brown and caramel tinted strands flopped as she jerked her head in the direction of someone calling out her name. How she became a dancer in this place was still a fuckin' mystery.

"I fuckin' know, Tony! Goddamn, you don't have to remind me. I see that the light is on." She flicked her index upwards as she eyed the backroom's manager, Tony. Now, he wasn't a big man, by any means but she saw him handle his own once. Nothing like what her father used to do. But then again, no one was like her father, now was they? Cocky and arrogant, possibly stupid. Thankfully, she wasn't raised by him but by another one of her mother's husbands, the one she was grateful enough to call Dad and if Daddy knew what his little girl was doing…

The shorter man came quickly, flashing and waving his hand, here and there to the women who actually liked the little fuck. Tony wasn't slender but he was built. What he lacked in height, he made up for in the weight department – mainly his arms. He looked oddly made. A Ken doll that never got his long-tanned legs and only the puffed-out chest. He ran a hand over the oil-slick that he called hair and Tenten gave a small frown of disgust. She was certain that you could cook an egg on the top of his head but she never had the heart to tell him. So instead, she offered her best forced smile that she could give. She had, too. Being smaller than he was, she had to watch his hands. No, Tony had never hit her but he tried once; only to be knocked back on his ass by the five foot even female, to which he kept his distance.

"He asked for you." He whispered as he closed the gap between them.

"Who? Who asked for me? No one knows me." She spat back. It was against the rules for any customer to know a dancer's name. The money that she had held onto was quickly shoved into her purse that she kept near her iron door – she wasn't about to pay no fine for being requested, fuck that.

"The motherfucker asked for you." He repeated.

"Okay? And your fuckin' point?"

"Your goddamn mouth about to get slapped off of your face if you don't tell me why that man in your booth is requesting you! We don't do requests." Two of his fingers jabbed quick and hard into the valley between her breasts. It was enough to send her wincing, her own arm shooting up to snatch his wrist within her hand.

"I'll-tell-you-again… No-one-knows-me." Her teeth were clenched. Words rough.

A collective hush fell over the back. Girls in their costumes stopping, pausing and watching. It didn't matter if they watched her knocked his block off or not.

This wasn't the time or the place to be letting her anger get the best of her. The light above her head a lit with its flashing red, flickering like an impatient heartbeat. Feminine digits began to unwrapped themselves, loosening from Tony's wrist but never letting go as she collected her rage and began to pack it back behind her proudly built emotional walls. She didn't know who the fuck would have requested her in a place like this unless it was her Tuesday Midnight.

Tuesday Midnight was the only customer that she had, that was regular. He came every Tuesday and hid behind the blackout glass of his half of the compartment. He didn't talk to her like the others tried to do. He simply paid for dance after dance from dusk to dawn. Others knew not to ask for her on that night. Things tended to get ugly if she was open for Tuesday's business. But it wasn't Tuesday.

"If he requested me, it's possible that he picked a girl's name off the board and went with it. It isn't like my name isn't on the list of dancers," She tried to have some logic to behind why some stranger would prance into Sinful and openly ask for her.

Tony snatched his arm away from her loosened grasp, rubbing his wrist.

"Whatever… you better not let me find out that you've been talking up the patrons, Tenten. He seemed to know an awful lot about you." The weight of his beady little green eyes almost made her want to slam her bony knuckles right into his nose but she decided against her judgement and ended the conversation with a slight shrug of shoulders.

An awful lot about you…

The very sentence continued to ring and repeat in her head. Lithe framing turned slightly to the metal door guarding her from the iron box and that one glass wall. Storm colored eyes studied it, trying to get a feel for whoever was in the room on the other side of her damnation. She was so lost to her thoughts that she hadn't realized that Tony had backed away, with a curiosity aglow in those tiny rat eyes.

Straightening up her back, fingertips found themselves 'fluffing' those fleshy mounds that were concealed by nothing more but a slip fabric. Tonight's get-up spared nothing to the imagination of men. Off the shoulder camisole had been ripped and fitted against the swell of breasts while leaving her mid-riff and back exposed. Resting against the width of toned hips was the elastic band of mock 1970's basketball shorts – showcasing the muscular thighs that she possessed, along with the cut of calves, and tiny ankles. Caramel flesh sparkled from the light sheen of sweat. The spot where Tony shoved his fingers was bright red and angry looking but it was too late to cover that shit up now. What was she going to do? Stand forty-five minutes in front of her vanity mirror, trying to cover it up? Time is money.

Arms lifted gracefully, gathering up those spiraled tresses into her palms, artfully collecting them until they were a twisted bun upon the crown of her head. Oval shaped façade blanked of emotion – she learned that in the beginning to. Never show your heart ache on the dance floor – your audience could read it in your energy when you take that first step. There was no prep talk as she reached over and pressed the go button off to the side of the door.