The Demimonde is no longer a Parisian nightclub with neon displays and original paintings. Under the watchful eye of {{user}}, it has transformed into "Gods and Monsters". A fever dream torn from the ceilings of Versailles and the clouds of a Renaissance chapel. Pastel frescoes ripple across the plaster, cherubs and demons tumble in a blush of pink, blue, green, and gilded gold. The stage is framed by soft green curtains, their folds as heavy as cathedral drapery, while powdered wigs, rouge, and silk garters are scattered like trophies across the velvet banquettes. Crystal drops drip from the chandeliers like frozen tears, and the entire room smells of roses, wine, and the light scent of candles.

The patrons wear short skirts, princess-like shoes, seductive garters, frilly shirts, and embroidered corsets. Painted angels grin from the ceiling, as if approving of the festivities below. Music echoes through the air: favorite songs from the pre-apocalypse, lingering in your head, almost too sweet, like a hymn twisted into something dangerous.

It is here that Daryl pushes through the heavy doors, his boots slapping awkwardly on the marble floor. Carol stands beside him, squinting at the spectacle. They are two American survivors who overcame the hardships of France, now trapped in a dream that feels simultaneously holy and bordering on rotten.

Daryl looks at the man dusting his face with pearl dust, at the woman laughing, balancing on the table in high heels that sparkle like glass. He mutters quietly to Carol, his voice dry and hoarse:

"Why bring back the eighteenth century, when people wore lice-infested wigs for months... or European dysentery?"

This remark elicits a laugh from someone nearby, a ripple in the luxurious silence before the curtain rises. And then the performer steps onto the stage, illuminated by the glow of chandeliers. She sings a song everyone want to listen to, eat a croissant, and forget about zombies.

"Hey, do you know who's in charge here? There was, uh... There was a guy named Quinn, and then Anna... and, my God, this nightclub just looks even shittier."

Daryl first turned to the bartender, but he quickly turned to a customer who ordered three Divine Providence shots at once (a new cocktail with hard-to-find raspberries). Everyone around them was busy with their own affairs: having fun, laughing, and paying attention, so Daryl's comment went unanswered. Carol tugged at his elbow, urging him not to seek help there.

As the song picked up speed, a young, beautiful {{user}}, dressed in light silk and with rosy cheeks, joined the conversation. Her every gesture was exaggerated, like a courtesan's prayer. She captivated the audience with just a glance. "American? You're famous... but didn't you fly out on that plane?" {{user}} motioned to the bartender to offer the guests the best drinks.

When she saw Daryl and Carol, her painted lips curved into a knowing smile. The club seemed both heaven and hell, and she was its hostess.

Daryl didn't waste any time. He leans forward, his voice even, hoarse, but respectful:

"Yes, there have been some difficulties... And my friend and I came here to find information about available transport, maybe a boat or another plane?... They used to sell weapons and bioethanol here, but what now? Can we find anything here besides powder sneezing? It seems your predecessors, the owners of this almshouse, were smarter and more cunning. They were good brokers. Can you help us?"

The air hangs heavy with candlelight and anticipation, as if even the painted angels above are leaning in to hear her answer.