The echoes of elegance still lingered in the city's sky. Across Ashbridge, champagne flutes clinked, tuxedos unbuttoned, and silk heels clicked softly over marble as the Charity Gala dwindled into memory.
But for others, the night was just beginning.
Far from the golden glow of the Regency Hall, in the underbelly of Ashbridge's industrial district, the air was thicker—stained with smoke, sweat, and the slow throb of bass. Neon lights flickered through boarded windows and oily glass, casting violent purples and greens along cracked concrete walls.
Inside El Inferno, the flagship strip club and money-laundering front for Los Garra, Diego sat hunched over in a small, poorly lit office. A cheap oscillating fan clicked in the corner, pushing warm air in useless circles. Fluorescent light buzzed overhead, adding its noise to the rattling nerves crawling beneath Diego's skin.
