Chum

The glowing neon sign spelling out "Crescent" bathes the crowded sidewalk in an otherworldly light. It lends a restless, animated quality to the line of people that curls around the block, all of us just waiting to shed this exterior and slide inside. The club's thick walls can't contain the bass; it pulsates like a far-off earthquake. It harmonizes with the hums, honks, and hollers of nighttime Philadelphia. The city pulses around me, alive, its heartbeat thumping to the rhythm of a high-octane rave.

It feels like the beat could resurrect the dead or something.

"Can you just, like, not?" Jordan nudges me. Their eyes, sharp in the neon light, focus on my foot tapping against the pavement. I didn't even realize I was doing it. "You're making me anxious just watching you."

"Ah, my bad," I murmur, smoothing my palms down the sides of my dress to stop myself from fidgeting. The fabric feels alien against my skin, a strange second layer I can't get used to. It's not spandex, and it's definitely not athletic wear. "This is my first time doing this. Being at a club, I mean. I don't usually hang out at places like this, you know?"

One of Jordan's eyebrows arches up, a glint of refracted neon dancing across the silver rings on their fingers. "Do you actually think I want to be here?" They wave dismissively toward the club entrance, disdain dripping from their voice. "They're probably not even going to play a single Trent Reznor track. I wouldn't be caught dead in a place like this if I didn't have a job to do."

"Who?" I ask, moving forward as the line inches along.

"Nine Inch Nails," Jordan clarifies, eyes scanning the area. "You know, the 'I wanna fuck you like an animal' guy?"

"Dude!" I squeak, still burdened by that easily embarrassed teenage sense of propriety. My mental Rachel Small starts to chastise Jordan for their language. "Actually, I think my dad listens to him."

"Your dad sounds awesome," they reply, guiding me along as we continue to wait.

Finally, after what feels like a torturous eternity—each minute stretching thin like taffy—I find myself at the front of this winding line. Two bouncers stand guard at the entrance of the nightclub, like living gargoyles. They look bored, eyes lazily scanning the crowd as if they've seen it all before. But when their scrutinizing gazes settle on me, I feel a surge of adrenaline. For a second, I swear I see their apathy waver. Just a flicker, but it's there.

"IDs," grumbles the bouncer on the left. His hand stretches out toward us, gnarled and massive like the roots of some ancient tree. I notice tattoos snaking from beneath his fitted black t-shirt sleeves. They're not colorful or elaborate; they look more like sutures, like he's been pieced together from different parts. My eyes linger on the tattoos on his knuckles—the area between the base and the middle knuckle. They're all inked in black. How much would that even hurt? An involuntary shudder rolls through me.

Jordan, seemingly unfazed by the aura these human monoliths radiate, smoothly produces their driver's license and hands it over. They stand there as if we're queuing for movie tickets and not sneaking into what could be a villain's lair. In contrast, my own actions feel more like those of a jittery pickpocket on their first heist. I plunge my hand into my purse and, after the most uncomfortable twenty seconds of my life, finally fish out the flimsy piece of government-issued plastic that proclaims me to be someone I'm not. It feels like I'm holding onto a lifebuoy in a stormy sea.

Rampart gave me the ID at our last spar. Right now, he's two neighborhoods away, doing a regular patrol and making a show of it.

The bouncer takes his sweet time examining Jordan's ID. His face stays as unreadable as a blank sheet of paper. Satisfied or perhaps just indifferent, he hands back the card and turns his attention to me. My heartbeat seems to sync with the pounding bass leaking out from the club's closed doors. He squints at my ID, then back up at my face, then down at the ID again. It feels like he's comparing two nearly identical pictures, searching for the element that doesn't belong. My stomach churns as if it's about to swallow me whole.

"Isn't she a bit too young to be here?" He doesn't direct the question at us but turns to his colleague, who looms beside him like a human-shaped mountain. His eyes scan me up and down. For a second, I feel less like a person and more like a math problem on a blackboard that refuses to add up.

"Yeah, could be," his mountainous colleague says, scratching his head as he continues to size me up. "Maybe we should scan it."

Scan it? The words slam into me like a freight train. My heartbeat, already racing, threatens to burst out of my chest and sprint away. I didn't even know you could scan IDs.

Jordan leans in close, ready to put on their performance. They adjust their posture, projecting the air of a slightly irritated older friend burdened with chaperoning their annoying younger buddy for the night. "Are you done yet, Sam?" There's a tinge of annoyance in Jordan's voice. "We're holding up the line."

Caught off guard, the first bouncer stares at the headset hooked over Jordan's ear. His expression twists into a knot of confusion. "What's the deal with that?"

Jordan doesn't miss a beat. "Oh, I'm deaf," they announce, leaning into the role. They glance back at the sprawling serpent of human bodies behind us, as if to emphasize the impatience of the crowd. Whether they actually know sign language or are just good at faking it is anyone's guess. I bite the inside of my cheek to stop myself from laughing—or maybe screaming in fear.

"What, you don't recognize a hearing aid?… Sir?" Jordan's tone walks the line between innocent inquiry and outright challenge. I can almost see the gears turning in their mind, clearly struggling between their impulse to antagonize every authority figure they've ever met and the need to actually get past these bouncers and into the nightclub.

The bouncer, this mountain of a man with a beard that seems to absorb the neon lights around us, pulls a scanner out of one of the many pockets on his utility belt. The little machine looks like something a 007 villain would use to check for spies. It's all sleek black and blinking LED lights. With a kind of practiced indifference, he takes my ID and slides it into the designated slot on the gadget.

The seconds stretch on, growing longer and longer, like a rubber band pulled taut to its breaking point. The world around me blurs, the loud bass thumps and laser-like sound effects from the club’s interior receding until all I can hear is the thudding of my own heart. It's like a drum, pounding away in my ears, each beat a reminder that this could go very, very wrong. I can feel Jordan beside me, an island of calm in my sea of anxiety. They're still as a statue, but their hand inches closer to mine as if preparing for… something.

Finally, the scanner emits a soft beep. A green light flickers to life on its small screen.

"Checks out," the bouncer mutters, a twinge of disappointment in his voice. Maybe he was looking forward to throwing out some teenagers tonight. I don't know. What I do know is relief, pure and overwhelming, like a tidal wave that washes over me. He reaches for an inkpad and stamps the back of our hands with ultraviolet ink, a glaring mark only visible under specific light. It’s as if he’s branded us, sending a silent message to every bartender in the place that we’re not to be served alcohol. "Go on in."

I release a breath, so big and heavy it feels like I've been holding it for years. My lungs seem to reinflate, and the world reasserts itself around me. The beats from the club's speakers rush back, flooding my ears like a physical thing. We shuffle past the velvet rope, that flimsy little barrier that separates the in-crowd from the out-crowd. As we step through, I can feel the bouncer's eyes on us, studying, weighing, and judging. But whatever he thinks, it doesn't matter. We're in.

I glance over at Jordan, and it's like looking into a mirror. Their face splits into a grin so wide it must hurt. I don't need to hear them to know what they're thinking.

"We did it," I mouth, my voice lost amidst the cacophony of the club's inner sanctum. The words are nearly swallowed by the swirling vortex of sound and light that surrounds us.

Jordan winks, a sly curl at the edge of their mouth as they say, "Oh, we're just getting started." Then, with a firm grip on my arm, they pull me into the bedazzling, overwhelming whirlpool of chaos and noise that is Crescent.

Light. Lights. The very instant we step into the heart of Crescent, it's as if we've plunged headlong into a vortex of sensation. The lighting, a kaleidoscopic rush of purples, blues, and greens, swirls across every conceivable surface. It's a deluge of color that pulses to the rhythm of the music, a sensory overload that's almost hypnotic. The floors beneath my sneakers are alive with fluctuating hues, like shallow tides of a neon ocean, and above, I notice the disco balls, suspended from the ceiling like miniature planets in a manic galaxy. They scatter pinpricks of light, some intense, some weak and smeared, across the walls, as if the very fabric of reality is freckled with stars.

A strobe light makes me feel erratic, like everything is moving in slow motion. For a second, I worry if I'm having a seizure, if I'm somehow photosensitive without knowing it. Then, the feeling passes.

My ears are immediately bombarded, next. The beats, originating from some indistinct location in the sea of human bodies, permeate the very ground. The bass is a living, breathing entity that sends rhythmic tremors through the soles of my feet and up into my shivering bones. I can feel the vibrations merging with my own pulse, compelling my heart to sync up with the club's erratic heartbeat. Layered atop this pulse are the abstract melodies of conversation, snippets of shouted dialogue tangled in a complicated weave of sound that overwhelms any other noise.

My nose picks up on a medley of smells so dense, it almost feels textured. The basic foundation is a heavy blend of sweat and alcohol, so deeply intermingled that they practically form their own unique aroma. Amid this, there are unpredictable bursts of spicy perfumes, hot and aromatic, that pierce through the haze. Yet within this complex olfactory tapestry, something else catches my senses, a brief, sharp whiff of metallic tang. My blood sense quivers awake, a soft nudge of awareness in the landscape of more dominant senses. Someone here is bleeding; the exact source is elusive, but the scent tugs at my heightened senses.

That’s when I catch another smell. The distinct odor of weed sneaks its way into the mixture, subtly different from the acrid bite of lingering cigarette smoke. It's like a quiet participant in a loud conversation, barely perceptible yet undeniably present. And it somehow fits, wedging itself neatly between the more aggressive scents like a wallflower too shy to leave but too distinct to be ignored.

The air is heavy with a sort of flavor, a complicated mélange (that means a mixture) of unspoken urges and unreleased tensions. It's as if the atmosphere is daring me to participate in its unfiltered existence. That being said, even if I wasn't branded with the Mark of Minor, it's not like anything here could get me drunk. Its own sort of curse, I suppose.

Finally, my attention shifts to Jordan, who hasn't let go of my arm since we entered this labyrinth of sensory hell. Their grip serves as an anchor, grounding me when every other sense threatens to carry me adrift. Their clothes provide an odd tactile comfort amid the storm of sheer raw stimuli. It's like holding onto a life preserver in choppy, brackish seas.

Suffice to say, I don't like it here.

Stepping deeper into Crescent, Jordan’s grip on my arm becomes my lifeline, pulling me through a world exploding with chaos. I let myself be guided past an immense, square bar that sits like a grand island in the ocean of people. It's the focal point around which everything else orbits. The bartenders move around the bar’s counters with a smooth finesse that's borderline theatrical. They spin bottles in the air, twirl shakers, and pour liquid in arcing streams - showpeople, captivating a crowd that's already entranced by the rest of the club’s spectacle.

Beyond the show-offy bar, the dance floor is a frenetic tangle of bodies. The music comes at you in waves of bass and treble, making the air itself seem to pulse. At the helm of this insanity stands the DJ, silhouetted by a backdrop of lights and colors that would give a kaleidoscope a run for its money. He's the puppet master here, with every flick of a switch or twist of a knob sending new ripples through the crowd, a crowd I have negative desire to get involved with, while Jordan's head flicks every which way, looking for passages in the waves.

I drag my attention to the right, where a corridor is doing its best impression of a strobe-lit tunnel. It expands and contracts with the club’s heartbeat — no, that’s just the lights again. Signs flash intermittently in that dizzying strobe: "Restrooms," one says, but there's something else down there. A velvet curtain is tucked away at the end of the hall. Private rooms? An exclusive bar? My thoughts flicker between thrilling possibilities and darker suspicions. I track down a nosebleed in my blood sense down to that curtain, and past it, and I put two and two together.

Gross.

But then my gaze wanders upwards. Above all this craziness, the second floor sits like a separate realm. It’s encased by intricately designed railings, like a gilded cage separating the elite from the commoners below. People lounge on plush sofas up there, cocktails in hand, conversations in full swing. They look down at us, but their laughter is a lost echo, drowned out by the tumult below. Staircases snake their way up to this opulent overlook, but each is guarded by a sign, a gatekeeper: "Employees Only."

That, and the actual gatekeepers. They have tasers and sunglasses, and are not signs. They are humans.

In seconds, but what feels like a slow-motion scan, the layout of Crescent cements itself in my brain. The central square bar, that’s your first landmark. Dance floor next, like a gladiator arena for party-goers. DJ booth presides at the far end like a throne of beats. Restrooms down the strobe hallway, alongside who-knows-what behind the velvet curtain. And finally, the second floor—a forbidden paradise circled by railings and guarded by dudes who could double as Secret Service agents. Every corner, every sign, every face—it's a clue or a tool or a hazard. I try to commit it to memory.

Jordan glances at me, glances forward, and then spins around on their heels to actually make eye contact with me. I feel like I must look pretty silly, because my eyes feel like they're bugging out, and Jordan is inspecting them, like trying to catch their own reflect in my retinas. They snap their fingers a couple of times. "Eyes up, Sam," they mouth, just loud enough to barely, barely be heard.

I turn my head towards the dance floor but my eyes up at the balcony, where the VIPs schmooze and pass credit cards along. Waiters and waitresses in gauche suits and bowties offer drinks, snacks, something that I'm sure is a joint but could easily also be a cigar or a cigarette, totally impossible to tell in this lighting. The way the club is structured puts all the glow in the first floor, keeping the balconies of the second much less well-lit by comparison. I pull Jordan in close. "They're up there. I'd bet my life on it."

"Me too. But no rush," Jordan replies, keeping their responses short and clipped. "Don't stand out. Mingle, eavesdrop, get a Shirley Temple," they continue, passing a twenty dollar bill into my hands.

Our earpieces crackle to life, a direct feed that cuts right through the brutally pounding noise running through my skull bone. "Good job getting in. I'm in line. I'll be hanging out by the entrance in case I need to ferry out civvies. You won't be able to reply from the noise, so just try to tap the button on your receiver once for yes, twice for no. Got it?"

I tap the button once. I see Jordan do the same, their thumbs twitching for that second tap that they ultimately fail to do.

"Good. We're counting on you," Crossroads' voice cuts into my head, pulling me back into reality for a moment, just in time to dodge out of the way of a drunken reveler attempting to cross my path. "Good luck."

Jordan taps twice.