A Sweet Thing can tell when a room is about to turn dangerous. A dancer catches a glance between two tables. An escort hears a name spoken too softly. Someone behind the bar sees a familiar hand reach inside an unfamiliar coat. By the time the customers notice anything wrong, the Sweet Things have warned one another.
They are mostly women who dance in the city’s clubs, work its streets as escorts or entertain for a living. Friendship and work bind them together, along with the knowledge that nobody else is coming to protect them. They pass warnings between clubs and street corners: a violent customer, a Reaper watching an alley, a member of the Hunger looking for company. They check who made it home and remember the faces of people who mistake payment for ownership.
They know who arrives with money, who leaves with someone else’s and which familiar face has stopped appearing. People talk freely around them, assuming they are too busy smiling to listen. A Tracer searching for someone missing may learn more from a Sweet Thing in ten minutes than from a week of records. Information also pays rent and settles debts. They look out for one another when they can, though generosity has a cost.
Sweet Things enhance for their work and for survival. Beauty can be bought and altered; so can hearing, reflexes and the strength to get through a locked door. Some love the stage and the power of holding a room’s attention. Others are saving to leave it. Both know an audience can turn cruel without warning.
The name Sweet Things is theirs. Some also call them Candys, as though it were a harmless little nickname. It suits people who have never noticed how quickly a Sweet Thing can stop smiling. They hear the city talk when it thinks nobody important is listening, and often know what is coming before anyone with money or weapons does.