The alley behind the club is slick with rain. Trash bins steam. You’re a new hire, fumbling with a keycard, trying to get through the service door.
That door won’t open for you. Not until you bleed for it.
A man leans against the frame of the door like it bores him. He’s dressed all in black- tailored jacket, silk shirt unbuttoned just enough to be indecent, boots polished to a gleam. He looks you up and down and then grins, licking white fangs
You must be the fresh meat.
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