walls gold-plated (but the room feels like you)

1. Red in the Gray

The night air is brisk and urges him to take shelter inside, but he's still caught wandering in the limbo of a moral gray area.

He takes a drag from his second consecutive cigarette, the smoke warming his windpipe both ways as he lets out a breath.

The building block had been an easy enough commute, nestled back in a relatively abandoned warehouse district far away from the bustle of downtown. The front entrance had been a little trickier to find, as the only indicator that it was an operational business was a lone valet boy standing out near the doorway who'd stepped out to the curb and leaned into his passenger side window to assure him yes sir, you're in the right place.

By now the valet has had time to park his car and meander back to his post right outside the nondescript front door. There's no neon logo displaying a club name or even a generic blinking "open" sign on the wall, only a set of unremarkable street numbers set above the door frame. Behind the tinted glass doors lies a complete mystery, as not a single soul has passed through since he'd arrived two painstakingly slow cigarettes ago.

Valet boy has unfortunately decided to strike up conversation. He approaches, soles of his sneakers crunching faintly on the sidewalk. He stops a few feet away, allowing enough personal space to keep things nice and casual. "First time, then." It's not posed as a question, just a means of initiating small talk.

The only response he dignifies is a low hummed affirmative as he takes another drag.

"You're in for a treat, then," says the boy. Can't be more than twenty-five or so. Spritely thing, he'd been, hopping around and into his driver's seat and taking off in his car without an ounce of hesitation. The lack of mutual conversation doesn't seem to bother the boy as he fishes out an unopened box of cigarettes and packs it on the back of his hand. "They treat newcomers real nice, so I hear. Best of the best, anything you want. That's what it's all about in there."

That's what he'd bought into, supposedly. Their main selling point was confidentiality, though.

No one could ever know he was here.

"Got a light?" The boy knows damn well the answer. It's now just a matter of generosity.

With a roll of his eyes, he pats down his pockets until he finds where he'd stashed his lighter and hands it over to the boy.

"Thanks, man." Formality is out the window, then. With a flick and a few puffs, the boy lights up and then passes the lighter back across the empty space between them. "Owe you one."

"Don't mention it."

"You can smoke inside, y'know," the boy continues. He shudders visibly, hunching his shoulders and holding his cigarette to his lips with a shaking hand.

"I know," he replies.

"Ahh." The boy nods sagely, as if he's cracked some sort of code. He lets out a long, billowing breath of warm smoke. "Whatever your reservations, they'll go away once you get in there."