Rain pelted the windshield in steady waves, the city's neon glow fractured across the wet glass like shattered jewels. Marcus pushed open the car door with a grunt, slipping out with the stiffness of a man who'd spent too long crammed into a confined space. The convertible's roof had been forced up because of the downpour, sealing in the heat, fogging the windows, and trapping the scent of old coffee and tension.
"Aw~ are you uncomfy?" Alexa cooed from the passenger side, stepping out with the grace of someone entirely unaffected. Her heels clicked on the wet pavement as she shut the door behind her.
Marcus gave a scoff in response and glanced up.
Club Platinum towered ahead of them, nestled deep in the heart of downtown. A chrome-and-glass monolith framed by LED columns that shimmered like molten silver. The name was emblazoned in electric white letters, glowing with a cool confidence that promised sin and excess. A broad awning extended over the entrance, pulsing with synchronized lights that played along with the bass thudding from inside, and even from across the street, you could feel it in your ribs. A thick velvet rope curved around the front like a red snake, corralling a restless crowd of drenched clubgoers—mostly late teens and twenty-somethings—huddled under the glow of umbrellas and vape pens.
Alexa let out a low whistle. "That's quite a line."
Marcus didn't respond. His eyes scanned the crowd briefly, noting the clusters of flirtation, annoyance, and pre-party chaos. The rain had stopped just short of the velvet rope, thanks to a subtle but well-crafted overhang that kept the revelers dry while leaving the sidewalk—and the uninvited—soaked.
"At least they're out of the rain," Alexa added, glancing up at the clever awning.
"We don't have time for lines," Marcus muttered, already making his way across the street toward the entrance.
Alexa followed, heels splashing in shallow puddles, a smirk tugging at her lips. "You're no fun at all."
The bouncer stepped forward, a brick of a man with arms like tree trunks and a face carved out of caution. "Hey, hey, you can't just cut line, buddy."
Marcus didn't slow. He towered over the man as he came to a stop. There was a sharpness to the bouncer's voice, but it cracked faintly under the pressure of Marcus's presence.
"I'm police," Marcus said coldly, pulling out his badge and flashing it with a flick of his wrist. "I'm not here to party. I'm here to do my job. Step aside."
The bouncer hesitated, swallowing hard.
"Si–sir, I can't—"
Marcus leaned in, letting his height and sheer presence press down like a weighted blanket. His eyes locked with the bouncer's.
"I—Alright, sir," the man stammered. "Please head in."
The two of them stepped past the rope, ignoring the rising tide of complaints and muttered curses behind them.
The moment the club doors opened, the world changed.
The bass hit like a truck—low, thunderous, vibrating through their chests. Light fractured across the darkened interior in rapid pulses of violet, gold, and electric blue. Fog machines hissed intermittently, lacing the air with a subtle synthetic haze that mixed with the heavy scents of sweat, perfume, spilled cocktails, and ambition. Every surface glittered. Every patron seemed to move in time with the beat.
"God," Marcus muttered, blinking against the onslaught of sound and color. "How do people enjoy this?"
"People enjoy different things, Marcus~" Alexa said with a grin, patting him on the back like an exasperated aunt at a wedding.
He shook his head, scanning the space, then began weaving through the throng of bodies toward the bar. She trailed behind, swaying slightly to the beat as though the noise didn't bother her at all.
When they reached the bar, Marcus leaned forward and flagged down the bartender. "Is the owner in?"
The bartender, a lanky young man with dark circles under his eyes and a strained smile, glanced between them. "Uh, yes, he's in. Upstairs. Are… are you one of the people here for the meeting tonight?"
Before Marcus could reply, Alexa leaned over the counter, her blouse dipping just enough to command the bartender's full attention.
"Yes, yes we are," she purred. "We don't come to places like this often, you see. It's all a bit overwhelming."
The bartender chuckled nervously, eyes glued. "I—I understand. It can be a lot."
She leaned in a bit closer, voice velvet-wrapped and sugar-tipped. "You understand~ Now, could you be a sweetheart and tell us where the meeting room is? It's our first time, after all."
He nodded quickly. "Third floor. That's the VIP level. Look for the black door—special VIP room. That's where it's happening."
Alexa gave him a slow nod, straightening. "Thank you. I'll put in a good word for you."
She turned toward Marcus, winked, and tossed her hair back. "Let's go."
"Do you enjoy playing with men's hearts?" Marcus asked as they moved away from the bar, pushing through a sea of bass-fueled bodies toward the stairwell.
Alexa glanced sideways at him, a grin already forming. "No, I do not," she replied sweetly—then added, "I enjoy playing with the hearts of menandwomen."
Marcus rolled his eyes, ignoring the way she swayed beside him, every step perfectly in rhythm with the music. They reached the stairwell and took the steps two at a time, trading neon chaos for the quieter shadows of the upper floor. The noise dulled slightly with each step upward, replaced by a low ambient hum and distant murmurs.
The third floor was roped off and guarded. A bald man in a tailored suit stood at the top, arms crossed over his broad chest. A long, pale scar ran from the corner of his brow down across his left eye, which had long since gone cloudy.
"This area's VIP only," he said, gaze flicking from Marcus to Alexa with practiced scrutiny.
"We're here for the meeting," Alexa replied smoothly, already halfway through adjusting her blouse to a more businesslike arrangement.
Marcus stepped forward, letting his jacket fall open just enough to hint at the weapon holstered beneath. "And if you need proof… I know what you are," he said quietly. "You can fake a heartbeat, but I can still smell you."
The man's expression didn't change, but a long second passed as something unreadable moved behind his good eye.
Then he stepped aside with the grace of someone who'd decided not to test their luck.
"Head right in, sir. Madam," he said, gesturing toward the hall behind him.
They moved past him without another word.
This floor was a world apart from the chaos below. The lighting was warmer, softer—gold and amber instead of blinding strobes. Leather couches formed conversational clusters around glass tables, each surrounded by suited figures or velvet-clad guests sipping cocktails. Hostesses moved between them like trained dancers, balancing trays and charm in equal measure, their voices low and inviting. The smell here was more refined—top-shelf liquor, cologne, spiced perfumes. Less sweat. More money.
"I can see why it's VIP," Marcus muttered under his breath.
Alexa gave a casual nod, eyes glinting as she scanned the room. "You think I could land a job here?"
Marcus shrugged. "Probably."
They didn't linger.
The black door stood out immediately—a sleek, unmarked panel at the far end of the lounge, flanked by sconces shaped like abstract wings. No glitter, no fanfare. Just matte black wood and a silver handle.
They stopped in front of it.
Alexa tilted her head, brushing invisible dust from her sleeve. "So how are you going to do this? Just barge in swinging? Or are you talking first?"
Marcus rolled his shoulders with a slow exhale, the joints in his prosthetic arm clicking faintly beneath the threads.
"We'll play it by ear."
Then he reached for the handle and opened the door.