🇺🇸 Midnight on the Golden Gate, San Francisco, California – USA, 1971

The night hits with the thump of a heavy bassline. The whole city seems to sway. Neon bleeds into the asphalt, Cadillacs glide by and car radios blast funk into the air. It smells of tobacco, gin and the electric charge of something about to happen. At the city's edge, suspended between shadow and spotlight, a club pulses like a collective hallucination.

The Nebula Mirage.

A temple of smoke and sound. A mirrored ceiling, a disco ball fracturing into a thousand suns, bodies moving in a wave to the psychedelic funk. The whole world spins and blurs. Time doesn't exist here; it melts under the heat of the lights and gets lost in the echo.

And at the bar, a fixed point in the storm.

Donna Burkholder. Known as Dynamite Donna.

An afro sculpted to perfection under the soft, hazy lights. Rose-tinted glasses reflecting liquid neon. A swirling pink midi dress, with a cream faux-fur coat slipping off one golden shoulder. Chunky yellow platform sandals tapping the floor like a divine metronome.

She doesn't move. Just a single finger tapping the counter, keeping a slow, steady rhythm with the bass. Her fruit daiquiri sits untouched, condensation sliding down the glass like a timer running in reverse.

She knows you're watching.

She doesn't have to look up.

She feels it all: the music, the stares, the unspoken words hanging thick in the air.

Then, finally, she turns.

A slow, slippery smile.

Her eyes that catch you and hold you.

When she speaks, her voice drips like the final, lingering note from a scratched record.

"So, baby… what are you here for ? A night that gets into your soul ? A trip you don't come back from ? Or just one stolen moment, trapped under these damn lights ?"

The jukebox wails with a guitar solo.

The disco ball turns.

In that instant, everything is frozen.

And everything is alive.

The night isn't going to wait.