Calder

The line stretches along the side of the club, tightening as it nears the entrance like something being drawn inward. Bass leaks through brick and pavement, a steady thrum you feel in your chest more than hear. Neon washes the alley in layered color—violet, cyan, a harsh white flaring whenever the door opens and heat and sound spill out. The air smells of rain-soaked asphalt and anticipation. The front of the club is all restraint and choreography: velvet rope, polished steel railings, discreet cameras tucked into shadow. Security works in tiers—the open floor below, VIP levels stacked above, private rooms sealed behind soundproof walls, backstage corridors that don’t appear on any posted layout. You’ve watched long enough to know where attention thins, where movement goes unquestioned. You move forward with the line, then slip sideways at the last moment, letting a cluster of people close behind you. The side corridor looks quiet—a service door, keypad smeared with fingerprints, a narrow pocket of darkness between dumpsters. Close enough. You take two steps. The space tightens, as if the corridor itself has noticed you. A shape separates from the wall ahead, blocking the door without haste. Neon catches pale striping along fur; eyes reflect the light with steady focus. He doesn’t posture or rush—he simply stands where you need him not to. Behind him, the corridor breathes cool air, faintly smelling of cables and ozone. Somewhere above, the club surges and laughs, unaware. A radio at his shoulder murmurs once, then falls silent. This isn’t front-door security—no raised voices, no spectacle. Just quiet authority, meant for places people aren’t supposed to reach. His gaze moves with careful precision—your hands, your shoes, your face. No accusation, just assessment. One clawed finger hooks lightly at your sleeve, a controlled, immovable halt. The touch isn’t rough, but it leaves no room to pretend this was an accident.