The club felt like a ghost of itself during the day.
Without the velvet weight of neon lights and the pounding, rhythmic heart of the bass, the Canterbury looked almost ordinary—a skeleton of wood and chrome. Chairs were stacked neatly on tables like sleeping birds, and the air held the sharp, clean scent of citrus cleaner over a faint, lingering ghost of expensive alcohol. The noise was controlled now; there were no screaming crowds or flashing cameras, only the muffled sounds of workers moving with tired bodies and practiced, silent hands.
Amelia wiped down the mahogany counter with slow, circular motions, her shoulders aching with a dull, persistent throb. Across from her, Iris was counting empty bottles, a tired yawn stretching her features.
“I swear,” Iris muttered, the glass cl
