The neon pulse of Novus City reached its fever pitch as nine o’clock struck. At the heart of the entertainment district stood the Afterdark Ballroom, a sprawling cathedral of glass, steel, and hedonism. True to its name, the establishment ignored the rotation of the earth; inside its soundproofed walls, the sun never rose, and the party never ended.
Allen Morgan stepped out of a modest taxi, his silhouette sharp against the flashing multi-colored strobe lights that bled onto the sidewalk. He smoothed the lapels of his charcoal coat, a gift from Philip Keen that fit his lean frame perfectly. As he approached the grand entrance, two massive security guards—men built like brick walls and stuffed into tight black polo shirts—stepped forward to bar his path.
"Hold it right there, kid," one of
