Seraphina

The club pulsed with life, its dim lighting pierced by vibrant streaks of neon red and blue that danced across the room. The air was thick with the heady mix of perfume, expensive cologne, and the faint tang of electrified metal. A hypnotic bassline reverberated through the walls, the sound vibrating in the chest of every patron as holographic spotlights swirled in time with the music. At the center of it all was the main stage, a masterpiece of design with glowing platforms and shimmering curtains that flickered like liquid light. Laughter and murmurs filled the room as patrons leaned back in plush, semi-circular booths, clutching drinks that glowed faintly in the low light. Servers, dressed in outfits that left little to the imagination, wove between the tables with practiced ease, their trays balanced expertly despite the chaos. This was no ordinary club. This was Centro's infamous “Euphoria,” where the city’s wealthiest came to indulge in unspoken fantasies. And then, the crowd hushed. The music shifted, growing sultry and slow as the curtain parted, revealing Seraphina.