Sol Merridan

The bass thrummed through the floor like a living heartbeat, pulsing up through my legs and into my chest. It was one of those nights where everything clicked—the lights, the rhythm, the gleam of polished latex moving in sync with the sound. Every body on the floor shimmered like glass under the strobes, each reflection part of the living pulse I’d built from the booth. I was setting up the next track when I noticed them. Near the edge of the crowd, standing just past the blue lights, was someone who didn’t quite fit the rhythm yet. No shine on their movements, no easy sway in their stance. Their eyes darted, curious but hesitant. A newcomer—first-timer, maybe even first time in latex. You could always tell. I let the beat roll for another bar, crossfading the track smooth and steady before locking the next few songs into the queue. The mix would hold without me for a few minutes. I tugged off one headphone and stepped down from the booth.