The air inside Club Midnight was heavier than Arya remembered. Tonight, the dim glow of neon lights seemed colder, the murmur of voices darker, and the pounding bass of the music more foreboding. She wasn't here to mingle, nor was she going to sit back and watch. She had a purpose—a dangerous one.
She adjusted her leather jacket, her fingers brushing against the knife concealed at her waist. The plan was simple: slip past the main floor, find the restricted area, and uncover whatever secrets the club was hiding. Yet, in her gut, she knew tonight would be anything but simple.
From her perch near the bar, Arya surveyed the room. Club Midnight was alive with activity. Beautiful people danced under the flashing lights, their movements almost hypnotic, but Arya's eyes weren't on them. She was watching the staff, particularly the bouncer guarding a side door near the back.
She'd watched that door enough times to know it wasn't used for deliveries or maintenance. It was for something else—something they didn't want anyone to see.
Taking a deep breath, Arya slipped off her barstool and made her way toward the back of the club. Her movements were deliberate, casual, as if she were just another patron looking for a moment of privacy. As she passed a pair of drunken club-goers, she seized the opportunity, slipping behind them and ducking into the shadows near the restricted door.
The bouncer was large, with a no-nonsense look about him, but Arya had prepared for this. She had spent weeks studying the club's rhythms, its moments of chaos and distraction. Sure enough, as the DJ shifted to a new track, a crowd surged toward the dance floor, pulling the bouncer's attention for just a moment. It was all Arya needed.
She moved quickly, slipping past him and into the dark hallway beyond the door. Her heart pounded as she pressed herself against the wall, listening for any sounds of pursuit. When none came, she allowed herself a small breath of relief.
The hallway was narrow, lined with black walls that seemed to absorb the light from the single flickering bulb overhead. It stretched deeper into the bowels of the club, twisting and turning in a way that made Arya feel as though she were walking into a labyrinth.
At the end of the hall, she came across a steel door. There was no handle, just a keypad glowing faintly in the dark. She cursed under her breath. There was no way she could hack this—not without drawing attention.
Then she noticed it: a faint scuff mark on the floor, just a few feet from the door. It looked like something heavy had been dragged recently. Her eyes followed the trail to the base of the wall, where a small vent cover sat slightly ajar.
"Not exactly glamorous," she muttered to herself, kneeling down and prying the vent open.
The narrow duct was barely large enough for her to crawl through, but it would have to do. Arya pushed herself inside, the cold metal scraping against her jacket as she wriggled forward. The sound of her movements echoed faintly, but she pressed on, her determination outweighing her discomfort.
After what felt like an eternity, Arya reached the end of the duct. Peering through the slats of the vent cover, she froze.
The room beyond was unlike anything she had expected. It was massive, far larger than she thought the club could accommodate, and bathed in an eerie red light that seemed to pulse in time with the distant bass of the music above. The walls were lined with shelves holding strange artifacts—daggers, masks, and jars filled with substances she didn't want to identify.
In the center of the room was a large circular table, carved with the same symbol Arya had found in Marcus's notebook: the jagged spiral enclosed in a triangle. Around the table were chairs, their high backs ornately designed and oddly menacing. But what caught Arya's attention most was the floor beneath the table.
It was stained.
The dark smudges looked too much like dried blood to be anything else, and Arya's stomach twisted at the sight.
A low hum of voices broke the silence, and Arya quickly ducked back into the shadows of the vent. She watched as a group of people entered the room, their faces obscured by masks. Each mask was different—some animalistic, others grotesque—but they all carried an unsettling air of power.
The figures moved with purpose, taking their places around the table. One of them, a man in a silver mask, began speaking in a language Arya didn't recognize. The others responded in unison, their voices rising and falling in a haunting rhythm.
Arya's pulse quickened. This wasn't just a meeting—it was a ritual.
She reached for her phone, angling it through the slats of the vent to capture what was happening. But as she hit record, a sudden hand clamped over her mouth.
Her scream died in her throat as she was yanked backward, out of the vent and into the hallway. She twisted, kicking out blindly, but her attacker's grip was ironclad.
"Quiet," a voice hissed in her ear.
Her heart stopped. She knew that voice.
"Draven?" she whispered, her voice barely audible.
He released her, his face partially obscured by the shadows. "What the hell are you doing here?"
"I could ask you the same thing," Arya shot back, her anger flaring despite the terror still coursing through her veins.
Draven's jaw tightened. "I told you to stay out of this."
"Yeah, well, I don't take orders from you," she snapped. "What is this place? What are they doing down there?"
Draven's expression darkened, and for a moment, she thought he wouldn't answer. But then he sighed, his shoulders slumping slightly.
"You don't want to know," he said quietly.
"Try me," Arya challenged.
He glanced over his shoulder, as if checking to make sure no one had followed them, before turning back to her. "This isn't just a club, Arya. It's a gateway. A place where power is traded and debts are paid—sometimes in blood."
Arya's stomach churned, but she refused to look away. "And you're part of it?"
Draven hesitated, and that pause told her everything she needed to know.
"Not by choice," he said finally.
She wanted to press him further, to demand answers, but the sound of footsteps approaching silenced her. Draven grabbed her wrist, pulling her back toward the vent.
"We need to go. Now."
"No," Arya protested. "I need proof—"
"There's no time!" he snapped, his voice low but urgent.
The footsteps grew louder, and Arya reluctantly followed as Draven led her back through the labyrinth of hallways. Her mind raced, replaying everything she had seen. The symbols, the artifacts, the blood-stained floor—it was worse than she had imagined.
When they finally emerged into the cool night air, Arya took a deep breath, the weight of the club's darkness still pressing on her chest.
Draven turned to her, his expression grim. "You can't go back there, Arya. You've already seen too much."
She glared at him, her fists clenched. "I'm not giving up. Whatever's happening in there, I'm going to expose it."
Draven's eyes hardened. "If you keep this up, you're going to get yourself killed."
"Then I'll die knowing the truth," she said fiercely.
For a moment, they stared at each other, the tension between them as sharp as a blade. Then Draven sighed, shaking his head.
"You're impossible," he muttered.
"And you're hiding something," Arya shot back.
Draven didn't respond. Instead, he turned and walked away, disappearing into the shadows.
Arya stood there for a moment, her heart still racing. She didn't know who to trust, but one thing was certain—Club Midnight was hiding secrets darker than she had ever imagined.
And she was determined to uncover every single one of them.