The Green Rail was practically pulsing with life when Vincent arrived.
The bass hit low and steady, shaking the floor under his boots.
The air smelled of sweat, cheap perfume, and smoke.
A sensory overload designed to numb the senses and loosen inhibitions.
He slid through the throng of bodies, a ghost in his usual disguise – the worn leather jacket and the nondescript mask that obscured his features.
All around people danced with a frantic energy, their faces flushed, lost in the rhythm, as if their very lives depended on surrendering to the music.
Suddenly, a hand snaked out from the crowd, catching his wrist in a surprisingly firm grip.
It was warm, almost scalding.
Brittney.
He turned to face her, keeping his body relaxed.
The singer looked radiant as usual, her smile wide
