I pull into a discreet driveway tucked between two abandoned buildings and kill the engine.
Inside, I nod once at the receptionist—part security, part front-desk illusion—and head for the private elevator at the back.
Swipe my black access card across the scanner.
The elevator hums to life and carries me down.
The second the doors slide open, the air changes.
Denser. Warmer.
The basement is packed, even in the middle of a weekday.
People lean against dark wood-paneled walls, sipping drinks that cost more than most people’s rent.
Some wear masks. Others don’t bother.
Laughter spills from private rooms—throaty, dark laughter punctuated by the occasional sharp slap of skin against skin.
There’s a constant low thrum of music, more vibration than sound, designed to stir the blood with
