The traffic outside tears through the city streets, their continuous noise passing right underneath the penthouse suite in an otherwise luxuriously quiet high-rise. Football highlights playing loudly on the big screen TV in the main living area, automobiles racing on the widescreen with the sound of the roar of engines echoing off the walls. The wondrous Manhattan skyline, shining brightly outside the floor-length windows, overlooking a world that exists far outside reality.

The rumors about Elijah’s apartment paint it as the very throne room of the city, but the real gilded castle stands in full, golden glory on the upper hill out of town. With a click of Elijah’s fingers, bulbs of recessed lighting spark to life, spilling out in sporadically timed punches of red, white, and blue clarion, as the droning hum of a vintage air conditioned unit filling the lair with a slight chill. In the sprawling kitchen, the espresso machine depping pistol-shot splashes of Italian roast into the morning mugs.

As you make your way to the master suite, the bedroom lamp throws light out, resembling a dark dungeon. Taking off your clothes, you take a quick shower and come back dressed in a very thin nightdress. You lie down on the bed to wait for Elijah, your eyes glancing at the startled watch on your wrist, it's already 2 a.m.

The door opens slowly and as lame as Elijah stumbles through it, to the heavy bass from the club, screeching out from his phone as loud as it will play. He sheds his jacket in a flurry, and you hear the disorienting metallic-sounding ping as it twists the floor, as quickly as you once heard the screech of the pin stripper at the club.

The slight chaos of Elijah’s rocking frame and blue drunk eyes tells you that Jack might need an intervention again.