Loud music pulsed through the walls, vibrating in their chests like a second heartbeat. From the outside, the building could’ve easily passed for a run-down night pub—if not for the vivid neon signs buzzing faintly above the entrance, casting soft pinks and electric blues onto the wet pavement. They hinted at a different kind of place, one not meant for quiet conversation or last-call beers.

Inside, the air was thick—muddled with the sharp tang of alcohol, overlapping waves of cologne and perfume, some heavy and musky, others floral and elusive. There was something dizzying about it all, like stepping into someone else’s dream. The décor was soaked in deep reds, glossy blacks, and glimmers of gold. Grand chandeliers dangled overhead—more for show than light—while dim wall sconces bathed the room in a soft twilight glow, almost sepia-toned, like an old film reel.

Alex walked in, arm-in-arm with Matt, the two of them gravitating toward the long bar that curved along the left side of the room. Jamie and Nick had hung back outside, chasing down one last cigarette like it was the only thing keeping them grounded.

The bar was already half-occupied—mostly guys. A few looked young, college-age maybe, but most of them were older, with the kind of quiet detachment that suggested lives that had drifted off course. Men who ended up here because they had nowhere more exciting to be. A strip club on a Wednesday night, somewhere in Nevada. It didn’t get much more cliché than that.

They were on tour again—America this time—just days away from flying back to Europe, only to return again by fall. The rhythm of it all was beginning to blur. Cities melting into one another, hotel rooms indistinguishable, venues echoing with the same noise. After years of constant movement, Alex had grown used to the chaos, the jet lag, the backstage monotony—but tonight he felt… off. Not sad, not exactly. Just a little hollow, like something inside him had quietly slipped out when he wasn’t looking.

It was a rare day off between two back-to-back shows. Management had finally given them space to breathe, like parents lifting a grounded teenager's sentence. And somehow, that freedom had landed them here. No one had really suggested it. They just ended up wandering until this place happened. Maybe it was curiosity. Maybe boredom. Maybe the unspoken need to remind themselves they were still young.

Alex couldn’t help the low flicker of embarrassment. It wasn’t that he hadn’t been to places like this before—he had, a few times, especially in the early days—but it always left him with the strange feeling that he was doing something wrong. Like he was trespassing on a life he wasn’t supposed to live. British clubs had a different flavor, colder maybe, or just more ironic. This was something else entirely.

They settled into the stools at the bar, ordering drinks they didn’t really want. Alex’s gaze drifted to the center of the room—where a few small stages were set up like altars, complete with chrome poles that caught the light like liquid metal. Two of the stages were already occupied. On one, a platinum blonde spun slowly, eyes half-closed, as if she was lost in some private universe. On another, an Asian girl with electric-blue hair—definitely a wig—moved with bored precision, her body in sync with the bass, her mind seemingly miles away.

The rest of the dancers roamed the room like restless ghosts, moving from shadow to shadow, their heels clicking softly against the floor.