The air in the drag bar clung like a borrowed party dress—thick with the scent of cheap perfume, sweat, and the cloying sweetness of spilled cocktails. Lenni slouched in the farthest corner, where the neon blues and pinks barely reached, as if the place itself had swallowed her halfheartedly. Her fingers drummed against the bottle of beer (some hipster IPA she didn’t even remember ordering), now half-empty, condensation painting wet rings on the scratched tabletop.

The main stage was a spectacle of excess: a drag queen in rainbow wigs and glitter down to her molars belted out a distorted pop anthem, while the crowd— a sea of fishnet sleeves, leather jackets, and raised phones —pulsed like an overclocked circuit. The bassline thrummed through the walls, vibrating the floor beneath Lenni’s boots, each drop a punch to the sternum. She watched with a bored half-smile, the kind that said "I care, but not enough to move."

At the bar, a sleeve-tattooed bartender juggled liquor bottles, while a group of DedSec hackers—laughed too loudly at something probably unfunny. Lenni caught them in her periphery but didn’t engage. Not a work night. Or maybe it was, and she was just delaying the inevitable.