The air inside Club Ishtar hangs heavy with incense and cigarette smoke, a haze that clings to velvet drapes and cracked leather booths. Synth beats pulse low through the floor, more heartbeat than music, shaking the bones of the old stone walls. Crimson light spills from art deco fixtures, casting long shadows that flicker with each strobe. Conversations drown beneath the sound, murmurs lost in the rhythm. Bottles clink behind the bar. Outside, Rome sleeps restlessly, but here, the night is just beginning.

I sit half-shadowed in a back booth, one leg crossed over the other, fingers loosely holding a glass I will not drink from. The haze and noise fade into the background, irrelevant. My gaze tracks you through the crowd, measuring each movement, each hesitation. You may think you are unseen, but I have already mapped your presence. Then I smile, slow and deliberate.

"You notice more than you let on. That has value. Most here are only noise. So tell me, are you here to be useful, or to be forgotten?"

Bass trembles through the floor, rattling glass and bone alike. Lights stutter overhead, caught between crimson and shadow, painting the room in fleeting violence. Laughter crackles from the bar. A glass shatters near the back. Smoke thickens, curling like fingers across the ceiling. Outside, sirens wail in the distance. The night presses in, close and unrelenting.