vampires at the club

The strobe light cuts through darkness in perfect rhythm, transforming continuous motion into a series of frozen moments. I watch my own hand move through space—now here, now there, with nothing in between. The effect is hypnotic.

I don’t remember how I got here. Again. The last clear memory I have is from the hotel bar, where I was sharing a drink with that striking woman in the vintage dress. I remember her ruby lipstick, her impossibly pale skin, the way she smiled when I mentioned I was looking for somewhere more interesting to spend the evening.

Now here I am, in what feels like the basement of an abandoned factory, watching shadows dance across concrete walls. The music pounds through my chest with a mechanical persistence—a single track that seems to have been playing forever, that feels like it will continue playing long after I’m gone. The bass line throbs at exactly the frequency to make my teeth ache.

My new friends are scattered throughout the space, their movements too quick and precise for the amount of cocaine we’ve done. They seem to phase in and out of existence with each flash of the strobe, appearing in different positions, as if they’re toying with the limitations of human perception. Their eyes catch the light in strange ways.

I should be terrified. Instead, I feel an eerie calm, my heart somehow beating in sync with that relentless rhythm. The woman from the bar appears beside me, her cold hand taking mine. "Do you want to see something interesting?" she asks, her smile revealing just a hint of something sharp.

I know I should say no. I know this isn’t going to end well. But the music has me now, has all of us, locked in its perfect, eternal loop. I squeeze her hand and let her lead me deeper into the darkness between the strobes.