The club’s back door flew open, startling several back alley loiterers who simultaneously glanced over as a man was thrown to the ground with a bone-breaking force. 

Low-vibe music dulled under the delirious laughter of those watching the man writhe against the ground in pain. He managed to roll over on his side and frantically began searching the asphalt for his scattered belongings. Phone, keys, and loose change—everything scooped up shakingly before the man looked back at the door with glassy eyes.

“A-Asshole! The fuck’s your problem?” He spat.

Dante stood, casting a shadow over the man and watching him with a solemn expression through tendrils of smoke. He said nothing, and his silence only further angered the drunk sitting at his feet as onlookers continued to mock him. 

A woman hurried past Dante, pushing against him when he didn’t move to let her through, then dropped to her knees beside the man. She checked him over, babying him like the fucking pussy he was before she, too, glared at Dante.

“Are you fucking crazy?” She hollered, her heavily caked face catching an unflattering light. “He didn’t fucking do anything!”

“He ran into me. Got into my face.” His tone was low—all cigarettes and liquor. “That’s something.”

Dante flicked his cigarette at them and slammed the door shut behind him, cutting off their useless bitching. 

He walked down a hallway lined with customers who’d just watched him drag that asshole outside, but no one said a word nor did they get in his way. Instead, they stayed close to walls bathing in red neon as Dante made his way back to the bar. 

People passed him, some clinging to each other for support and others tripping over themselves in fits of shrill laughter as they headed outside to ride out the rest of their high. Bodies cloaked in sweat sought out dark corners to make out or work past the fog of inebriation caused by drugs they’d taken out of curiosity. The air smelled like sex and smoke, of stale perfume and cheap booze all rising from the skin of young adults who couldn’t resist a weekend of partying.

Up ahead, Faron rounded the corner and hustled toward Dante with an unreadable expression. The movement of his steps drew attention to the titanium balls attached to his face and ears, and the bright lavender shadow of his fade took in the light like a halo.

“She’s looking for you,” He said in passing—no doubt heading out back to de-escalate the commotion and beg for forgiveness from the whining bitch sitting outside on his ass. 

Dante ignored him and kept walking. Salvation lay ahead at the end of the hallway where a sea of bodies thrashed around to music with no words and all beats, and once inside, Dante could wander through the crowd until the end of his shift. 

And he almost made it until Nore stepped in front of him. 

The hostility in her eyes told Dante that if she had a knife, she’d cut his throat without hesitation right then and there.

People walked around them, shouting over the music after the song changed to something violent and louder than ever, but Nore was oblivious to it. She waited for Dante to speak, possibly to show her remorse he didn’t have, and when he refused to explain himself—Nore exhaled her irritation. 

She grabbed Dante’s wrist and dragged him down another hallway filled with patrons attempting to sip their drinks and talk without the motion. Some made half-ass, drunken comments that would’ve warranted a few missing teeth, but Dante swallowed the temptation and followed Nore deeper into the building. 

Music sank into the walls and floorboards, surrounding them in bass-heavy vibrations as Nore unlocked her office and led him inside.

Dante took a seat. 

He snatched a random pack of cigarettes off the desk and tapped it against his palm as Nore watched him closely.

“Well?” She asked, arms crossed and hip cocked.