Pounding music is heard through the crystalline glass doors.

The bouncer, tall and bald and mean looking, with the stance of a soldier and the sneer of disgust, pushes the doors open for the three. Quickly ducking in, the echo of chattering night citizens in line is drowned by the pounding music, Read Your Mind by Trevor Something, enveloping every corner of the grand stone room. The floor beneath them as they walk forward to the cusp of revelry and languid people leaning on walls. A drink in every one hand, the other taken either by a person or pointing at another.

The outside of the building stood roman-esque old stone, fit with Doric columns and the pantheon roofing. The inside, just the same stone, except bathed in darkness and flashing lights. Walls filled with curtains to the point they pool around the edges of the floor, spanning to the ceiling and covering windows, real and false. However, that's only on the main overlooking floor. Akin to the roman colosseum, the current floor holds a circular overview into the lower level just below, showing the true revelry as the northern side holds dancing bodies and the scent of sweat visually permeating the air. Sprays from champagne bottles abound within the dancing, drinks taken to the dance floor from the nearby bars on either side of the rim.

The north also holds the DJ station, elevated just enough and built into the wall, to be sat just below the three onlookers feet above. Along with having its own floor, a low number of people dot the edges, sat in purple suede seats and wearing high class outfits of pressed suits and black tie event dresses. The half wall of glass in front, combined with the light and lack thereof behind the DJ, makes it impossible to make out whoever is controlling the music. Regardless, the sound machine controls the dancers' raucousness, the thundering bass reverberating through their shoes.

Matthew, Ninum, and Mandy all make their way forward to the foggy edge of the upper circle, looking down upon all of it, trying to find a staircase to lead them lower. The floor below them, has two staircases on either side of the DJ, across from them. Past the crowds of people must be the stairwell, Matthew makes the observation that the amount of people here seem to be more rabble than dignified.

Dodging past people on this floor, it gets more packed the further they get, smoke getting breathed into their faces from vapes and the occasional cigarette. Matthew takes the lead, getting to the rounded stairwell first. Almost tripping, Mandy holds on closer to Ninum’s arm as she stumbles past a man who almost spills his drink on her green and purple sequin dress as he gestures wildly.

“The birds are wack here dude, I'm telling you! The pigeons don't even fucking migrate!”

Fortunately they get down the stairwell, devoid of people coming or going, without any mishaps or missteps. It's all rounded stone wall and black marble, lines of gold on the sides, give it an elegant and faux rug look. The black marble is the same on this floor as well, only covered in long red rugs, somehow devoid of the tell-tale signs of foot traffic. The magenta booths lining the edge of the circle, with a view of the bottom, are mirrored on the inner wall as well. Some tables stand alone in the middle, decorated with a fair amount of people, but a clear pathway makes its own circular line all around and towards the guarded golden double doors below where they came in. The tables begin to thin out the further they go, the people only become more dense as the air becomes thicker from the barely hidden staring of businessmen and women.

Across from them, holds rounded staircases with openings for the stairs the same as above, under the double doors in the middle with guards on either side, leading to the lowest floor as they converge similarly as the one at the hotel. Only these are built into the stone walling, rather than floating and made of glass. Matthew will have to come back up here after talking to the bartender.

Finally at the last passing point, the view from the landing shows only revelry in hedonistic pleasures, a stark difference to the odd quiet, if you could call it that, of the floor above. People dance to the guitar sounds of She Can Get It by Kevin Rudolf, grinding on each other in the center of the room, only three stair steps down from the rest of the elevated floor of the rest of the black marble flooring. The floors are clean and devoid of the precipitation from further into the room, a miracle that no one seems to be slipping. Matthew, turning behind and with a quick reciprocated thumbs up from Mandy, beelines to the bar to the right, rife with dancers not confined to the main center.

Moving past people, attempting not to touch them as they make erratic moves, he makes it to the bar to his surprise. Once there, head ducked for a moment to catch his breath from the stint of holding it when passing a man who stunk of raw alcohol, the antiseptic kind, he looks up and immediately locks eyes with himself through the bottles obscuring the mirror wall. The yellow lights inside the bar bathe him in sepia, barely concealing the discomfort in his eyes as shadows of people pass by behind him. The only upside, he gives himself the comfort of knowing that he is at least dressed nice in a white dress shirt rolled up to his elbows.

“Can I help you?” The bartender asks, dark eyes, almost black, drawing Matthew’s gaze away from himself.

Standing up straight he quickly profiles the man; Asian, nametag: Haru, likely Japanese, black hair fringing along his head like a better version of a bowl cut similar to his own, a dark maroon vest over the same white dress shirt, rolled up sleeves showing milky white skin. He’s wearing contacts, eyes watching Matthew as he scans him. His head tilts to the side, almost playfully as Matthew has to push himself into the bars top, digging into his abdomen as he tries to avoid the person going by behind him, stumbling into their friends laughing arms.

“I’m,” Looking back at the bartender named Haru, relaxing back to standing position, “not here to drink.”

“Oh?” He asks, eyes scanning Matthew up and down this time, “Then what are you here for?”

“I-,” He’s unsure, should he tell this man what he’s looking for at the risk of the bartender blabbing?

Deciding against it, “What’s with the floor above us? It’s filled with,” he wants to say business dignitaries, “fancy people.”

“That’s likely because they're here to take advantage of the new dealings.”

“New dealings?”

“Haven’t you heard? Mr. Axis got-,” Haru cuts himself off, eyes darting left to where the golden doors would be above the stairs, if not hidden behind the blonde dark skinned woman overlooking the party, leaning on the edge, “Well, that's hearsay, but he recently died. His daughter has now taken over the family business.”

So she’s the one in charge, a mistake on his part earlier for writing her off as a date to the man. However, the lack of familiarity between the two likely means he was extradited to her by whoever was in the limo. But with the people lining up on the second floor, who would it be that is so influential to be the one funding her? And what would they be funding?

“Oh. And what are they looking to make business for? I know he used to own this whole strip, probably still does right?” The bartender nods, polishing the new glass in his hands, “But what else could there be to offer? Drugs?”

Haru laughs at the words, “Oh, no. Don’t worry about that, that’s on the other side of town. Ms. Talachi doesn’t pride herself on such dealings, rather the business works in keeping people afloat in their images specifically,” leaning in closely, contact eyes closing, as if telling him a secret, “If people like you, they’re more likely to buy your product.”

Well that explains the amount of advertisements on the strip, everything from ‘toys’ to cigarettes and vapes, and oddly enough nicotine patches soon after those. Billboards towering everywhere, over and above and almost rivaling the notoriety of the tower itself. Cheesy slogans for sub-par products, unfortunately the nicotine got him as well, so he doesn’t have much in him to complain about the ability to sell. He’s a bit ashamed himself he fell into the same trap that everyone else has fallen into.

Meeting abyssal eyes again, Matthew stands up straighter: If he gives the impression that he’s here for gossip he might be able to learn a few tricks in who to talk to up there, “So, who exactly is looking to do business with her? Mr. Green?”

The bartender snorts, “Oh, no don’t worry about him. The banks are the type of business that can’t be advertised, they’ve become their own sort of necessity,” he continues the mirth in his voice, setting down the glass and striding towards a new patron, sending a two fingered salute, “Good luck out there.”

That’s an odd way to put it, but sure. Matthew finds it strange he would say that, banks being their own form of necessity. Even more pressing, he realizes with a defeated sigh, is that Haru likely knew he was trying to get information out of him. At least now he knows that Ms. Talachi is in charge, all that’s left is to start investigating, chatting up the business dignitaries.

Making his way past the white marble top tables, he steals a black tie. Throwing it over his shoulder around his neck, he pops his collar and buttons it up, then tying it. Single knot. Passing by a conveniently placed spare bartender red vest, he keeps going and ignores it, rolling down his sleeves. Luckily, whatever kind of cotton this shirt is made from, that Ninum summoned, doesn’t wrinkle as he buttons the wrists.

A case of theft: this story is not rightfully on Amazon; if you spot it, report the violation.

—

“We don’t have to dance, if you don’t want to?” Ninum says, staring back at her from only a step down.

Fingers twitching and playing, shifting weight, “Could we, maybe, sit and talk a little? Before,” Mandy gestures vaguely to the mass of writhing bodies, “all that.”

The woman obliges, stepping back up and closer, offering her arm to Mandy. Once entwined, Ninum leads the way to the left side bar, dodging people more elegantly than before, walking slow enough to not pull her along by her arm. Brushing her thin blue-green cornrows out of her face, Mandy takes in the setting of friend groups chatting and dates flirting over multicolored bright drinks. By all means, she laughs at herself, the only reason she hasn’t tripped is due to the tables' rounded gold bases shining neon white lights on the ground around peoples feet.

“Can I get,” Ninum looks up at the blackboard behind the bartender, scanning the options before looking back at Mandy, “What’re you going to get?”

Not the best at being put on the spot, she fumbles for a second as Ninum turns back around after seeing her hesitate, “I’ll have a pink lemonade,” tapping on the bars top three times as the man's eyes, his sclera behind dark blue, turn black. Mandy chalks it up to the passing beam of red light meant for the dance floor as she debates with herself what to get.

Brown eyes dart between the bartender and the black dress woman, corset siding and off shoulders, again put on the spot, “I’ll, um, have a, uh, rum punch. Please.”

Once served, quite quickly at that and without paying, they again walk around. A lone table stands open, two tall back white barstools pushed in flush against the golden rim of it. Setting their drinks down, the rum punches shorter glass clanks louder than the tall pink, they make themselves comfortable just the same as most others. Mandy, scooting her chair a bit closer, plays with the cherry in her drink, brushing it against the pineapple as Ninum sips through the straw of her lemonade.

Brown eyes, downcast, looking for a reprieve from the air around them that begins to feel awkward from the lack of banter, starts the conversation, “So, you um, come here often?” She looks up at Ninum through her eyelashes, almost covering her silvery and purple bubble like makeup.

Eyes drawn away from the crowd, a smirk overtakes her face and splits her red lips apart, “And what makes you think that?”

With a small awkward laugh, Mandy plays with her cold drink, playing with the condensation, “I, um, well. I haven’t really been to any of these places before, or at least not in this city,” taking a drink to steady her nerves, she looks away to her right at the people dancing without any anxiety, “I’m not really, not really sure what to do? Makes me feel almost a little stupid.”

A laugh leaves her as well, but more well meaning, “We could,” Ninum stares back at the people dancing, a look in her candle flame eyes that almost makes her seem fascinated, maybe jealous, “play twenty questions?” She looks back at Mandy, whatever look in her eyes now gone and replaced with focus, directly looking into hers with a playful flicker to them.

A playful scoff leaves Mandy’s lips, “Okay, I’m not that stupid.”

“No, seriously. We could feel each other out, it's a fun little get to know each other game.”

Side eyeing the woman, “Uh huh, yeah, sure.”

Ducking her head at the obvious tone in Mandy’s voice, “Here, I’ll be nice. You can start,” she says, hands splaying out and inviting her to start as she sits back against the barstool.

Thinking over the words while sipping her drink, Mandy isn’t quite sure how to begin. Should she start easy? Or something deeper? Would it be rude to ask personal things? She could start with where she’s from, but her faint Brooklyn accent almost makes it seem obvious. But the accent almost doesn’t seem to fit, with other accents wavering in and out of her tone of voice whenever she speaks. It's hard to pinpoint what it is that she sounds like.

“So, what are you?”

“What am I?”

“Yeah. Like,” Mandy now realizes how that might sound, and disregarding the original idea of asking where she’s from, she shifts gears rapidly, “how would you describe yourself?” She looks up at Ninum, brown eyes trying to focus on hers.

Licking her lips, taking a drink as she turns the question over in her mind, “Hm. I’m a demon.”

“A demon?” The answer brings a genuine snort out of Mandy, covering her dark purple lips with her hand.

“Yep.”

“So, Ms. Demon,” Ninum must find herself hilarious, but it helps to steer the conversation back to what Mandy meant, “what's hell like?”

“Hell?” Ninum muses to herself, playing with the edges of her hair, brushing the overgrown bangs out of her face, “Well, oddly enough, time doesn’t work the same.”

“Time works wonky in hell? Who would’ve guessed.”

Playing with the straw in her drink with a smile, “Some join from later, some earlier get through the gates later than they die. It’s the big guys that have been able to see everything from the beginning,” she meets Mandy’s eyes, giving a playful warning, “They’re the type you don’t want to mess with.”

Mandy nods along with her, playing into her words, “Hmm, sounds like a mafia.”

A sharp laugh full of mirth makes it through the noise of the club, “You know what, yeah, it does.”

—

Getting to the top of the stairs, Matthew stands front to the decorated tables. Suits and dresses, more packed together to his right. The view of the golden double doors has been completely overrun with more people than before, attempting to mask their desperation. And the woman of the hour? At the edge of the circle, overlooking the party is Talachi in a gold beaded dress hanging down to her black heels with a golden thin heel, ‘Versace’ was it? The amount of people makes it hard to see anyone closer to her, attempting to somehow catch her attention with their obtuse words while sipping champagne.

It’ll take forever for him to get anywhere near her, so it will be better to start at the edges. Making his way past the more crowded parts, the sparseness feels more breathable. No more sweat permeating the air, hot winds replaced by cold on this floor. The kind of cold that’s reminiscent of every office building on every block.

Slipping by a couple matching in light blue who give him a dirty look, he has about three groups to choose from. A man in green and black with gold accents, a pair of women matching in red Qipaos, and a woman dressed in a suit tapping away on a laptop. The last likely his best bet. Before making his way towards her at the very edge of where the people are sitting, two men come down the stairs. Audaciously pink, from their sunglasses to their light pink scarves underneath their white suits to their hot pink shoes.

He should stay clear of them if he wants to stay under the radar. Besides, he rationalizes with himself, they seem more invested in their little argument then making their way towards him. As naturally as possible, he steps up to the table.

Without looking up, the bespectacled woman, blonde hair slicked back and in a Russian accent, “Appointment?”

“Oh,” he didn’t realize this is what this was, he didn’t even see her when passing through, “uh, no. Sorry, I was hoping to talk more with the people here rath-”

“No appointment, go down or leave,” her words are short.

“I-,” before he can say much else, the man from before, with the Barbie pink sunglasses, knocks into his back and sends him stumbling into the laptop woman's table, spilling her coffee.

“Мудак!”

“Fucking asshole!” The man says after pushing him, when he was the one who hip checked into the table.

—

“Well, I’m from South Padre.”

“Oh? I’ve heard the hotels there are nice,” Ninum traces the edge of her drink, before her fingers snap as she points to Mandy with a manic smile, “And the ceviche from there is divine! A friend brought some back from one of the piers down there.”

“Really?” The braided haired woman says, leaning further into her hands holding her face propped up on the table, “You know, one of my friends that works at one of those hotels? You’ve probably met him in hell, the spring breaks there aren’t what they’re advertised.”

“Wowie baby! Didn’t take you one to speak ill of the dead, isn’t that looked down upon?” Ninum taunts.

“You’re the demon, you tell me. Is it a sin?” Mandy says, head propped in one hand as she leans to the side and further into the table.

“Depends who you ask,” Ninum says, popping one of the spicy jalapeno cheese balls in her mouth, “You really don’t want to dance?” She nods towards the dance floor.

“Oh, no. I- um. I’ve got, like, two left feet,” Mandy says, hands starting to fiddle with themselves again, “You can lead, maybe, if you’d like.”

“You don’t take the lead?” Ninum asks, alluding vaguely.

Mandy’s head tilts at the question, before realizing what she means, “Oh! No, no. Not really,” she says with a laugh, before question Ninum the same, hoping for a different answer, “Do you, take the lead?”

Orange eyes flicker around a bit at the question, looking Mandy in the eyes regretfully, “Nope, sorry to disappoint.”

“Seems like neither of us like to take the lead,” Ninum continues, glancing up towards the upper floor where Matthew brown head of hair can be vaguely seen darting around over the edge.

Mandy, despite the let down, is alright with it, trying to convince herself of it, supposing it would be too good to be true. Sipping large sips from her rum punch, her southern accent peaks through from the liquor infecting her, “Suppose that puts us at an impasse.”

Mandy isn’t quite sure what she was expecting. A pretty woman, showing up next to Matthew in a little black dress. She knows Matthew doesn’t swing that way, but God did Ninum really almost make her question that. She’s unfortunately really pretty, with her perfectly done smokey eyes holding fiery orange eyes, a pretty black dress barely hiding- No! Mandy shakes her head at the thoughts. She can’t be getting more connected to her like that, they wouldn’t even be able to get that far with each other so there’s no use fantasizing.

Ninum’s flame like eyes are still focused away from her, looking up towards the second floor. Up there stands a really pretty dark skinned woman, a relaxed blonde afro, different from her braided green hair, a really pretty gold dress off the runway, better than her cheap multicolored flashy dress. And Ninum is solely focused on the woman, orange eyes unmoving on her form. Mandy knocks back her third drink, the red orange slipping down as the pineapple and cherry are found in another glass.

In Ninums mind, she tries to ignore the brown akin to a rabbit bouncing around over the rim of the circle, focusing on the pretty blonde watching over the party. A similar smokey eye, but with golden detailing and gold eyeliner. Her hair, curly falls in a form of bangs above her well manicured eyebrows, and a red lip ties it all together. And the golden dress? Beautifully low cut.

“Um,” Mandy pats her chest, keeping in a burp from the air clogged down by drinking too fast, “Where’s Matthew?”

“I’ll have to step in, won’t I?”

—

The man pulled out a white-gold ‘paperweight,’ the man's friend said! A paperweight his ass! That was a damn handgun! Matthew ducks past multiple dressy people, bumping into people and almost knocking a few over.

Ducking under a waiter’s tray. Spinning past the man in green. Doing an accidental dip with the man in light blue. He barely manages to avoid a left hook from the gun guy's friend. A pink scarf flies over his head as he ducks down. Running past, he knocks right into the back of someone. It sends him spiraling, and stumbling. Falling on to the ground.

Looking up, he meets directly with spread black oxfords and something of long metal. Black trousers lead up to a suited man, long black hair and wrap around sunglasses. With his wrist, resting, on the Arthurian sword's fancy hilt. Metal wrapping around handle in the form of a guard.

He’s not smiling, not even a smirk as sits like a guard dog in a purple booth, before where Talachi stands as Bow by Reyn Hartley plays over the clubs sound system.