The bass thumped through me first. It wasn't the chaos I'd stumble into later or the blood I'd feel slick on my skin—just the sound, vibrating up from the concrete floor of The End All through my steel-toed boots. I stood by the entrance, leaning against the wall with my arms crossed, my broad frame a silent signal to anyone dumb enough to test me. At six-foot-two, with skin a warm brown from my Korean and African American roots—ambiguous enough that people sometimes guessed Latino—I wasn't easy to miss. My hair stayed cropped short, and my eyes scanned the room with a sharpness I'd earned through years of mixed martial arts. The End All was my turf, a San Francisco club where neon bled pink and blue onto Folsom Street outside. Inside, the air hung heavy with sweat, cheap vodka, and the faint tang of desperation.
Marcus's voice cut through the pulsing trap beat, sharp and familiar.
"David, you see that line?"
I glanced over at him. He was wiry, all sharp elbows and restless energy, clutching a clipboard that was more for show than function. The real list of who got in lived in his head, a mental tally of regulars and big spenders. The crowd snaked down the block—tech bros in overpriced hoodies, girls in glitter-dusted crop tops, a few sketchy types lingering with crumpled bills in their pockets. Friday nights always drew this mix, a predictable mess I'd navigated for two years.
"It's gonna be a madhouse tonight."
I kept my tone flat, already bracing for the hours ahead.
"It always is."
The line shifted as people jostled for position, their voices a low hum under the music. I adjusted the earpiece in my ear, the faint crackle of static grounding me in the noise. This gig was my rhythm—part-time, cash under the table, enough to cover rent in Hayward and keep me in protein shakes after sparring sessions. MMA had carved me lean and sharp, but the streets I'd grown up on taught me to watch every shadow.
"Keep the drunks out this time, Marcus."
I nodded toward a guy in the line who was already swaying, his balance shot before he even reached the door.
"I'm tired of playing babysitter."
Marcus laughed, a quick, barking sound that echoed off the walls.
"No promises, man."
He scratched at his jaw, eyes glinting with mischief.
"Money talks louder than you do."
I didn't argue. Money might get them in, but my fists kept them in line. The End All wasn't just a job—it was a fit, a place where my quick hands and quicker instincts made sense. Plus, John owned it, and John was my anchor in this chaotic city.
As if summoned by the thought, John Torres pushed through the staff door. He was a big guy—broad shoulders, salt-and-pepper stubble framing a weathered face, a faded Metallica tee stretched tight over a gut he wore with pride.
"David."
He clapped a heavy hand on my shoulder, his grip firm and grounding. I met his eyes, noting the faint lines of exhaustion etched around them. He'd seen worse nights than this, and we both knew it.
"You good?"
"You've got that look—like you're two seconds from snapping someone in half."
"Every night."
I smirked, only half-joking. The tension in my shoulders was a constant companion here, a coiled spring waiting to snap.
"You got the bar under control?"
"Last week, Tina overserved that idiot with the neck tattoo. I nearly broke a table dragging him out."
"Tina's on thin ice."
John grunted, scratching at his stubble as he glanced toward the bar.
"Lisa's behind the bar tonight—she's got a spine."
"You just keep the door tight."
"I'm not shelling out fines because some kid pukes on my floor."
The bar loomed behind him, a cluttered stretch of wood and glass where Lisa was already pouring shots with a steady hand. She was newer, but tougher than most—didn't flinch at the rowdy ones. I trusted her to hold it down.
"Fair enough."
I turned my attention back to the line. A girl near the front caught my eye—petite, fake lashes fluttering like trapped butterflies, skirt barely covering anything. She waved at me like we were old friends.
"Hey, David!"
"You working tonight?"
I didn't answer. They all knew the routine: flash a smile, lean in close, coo about how "safe" they felt with me around. It was a transparent play for free entry, maybe a drink if they pushed it. I'd seen it a hundred times—girls like her didn't care about me, just the perks my job could offer.
Marcus nudged me with an elbow, his grin widening.
"You're wasting it, bro."
I shot him a sidelong glance. He was always on about this—thought I should cash in on the attention.
"They're practically begging."
"What's the point of being built like that if you don't take advantage?"
"The point is I don't need the headache."
I shut it down, firm and final.
"You want them, they're all yours."
He grinned and turned back to the next group, his voice sharp.
"ID."
"No, not that fake garbage—give me the real one."
The night settled into its groove. I checked IDs, broke up the occasional shoving match, and hauled out the drunks who'd had one too many before they could wreck John's club. By midnight, the crowd thickened, bodies pressing close as the air grew sticky with heat and spilled beer. My shirt clung to my back, sweat beading on my forehead. I caught a girl's giggle—"David, you're so hot"—and brushed it off. This was my life: predictable, controlled, a machine I could run with my eyes closed.
Then I saw her.
She came in on some guy's arm—Ricky, a regular with a man-bun and a leather jacket that screamed midlife crisis. She didn't look right. Her eyes were pale blue, glassy, staring through everything like she wasn't really there. Her skin glistened with a clammy sheen, and her blonde hair stuck to her neck in limp strands. She didn't speak or smile—just shuffled along, her feet dragging as if she could barely lift them. My stomach tightened, a warning prickling at the back of my mind. Drugs, I thought. Fentanyl had been tearing through San Francisco; I'd seen enough overdoses here to recognize the signs.
"Marcus."
I nodded toward her as they passed, keeping my voice low.
"That girl's tweaking."
"Keep an eye on her."
He squinted across the room, his brow furrowing for a moment before he shrugged it off.
"She's with Ricky."
"He's in here all the time."
"Probably just high."
"You wanna play cop, be my guest."
I didn't move yet. They slipped through the crowd, Ricky guiding her to a booth near the back. She moved like a marionette with half its strings cut—loose, lifeless, wrong. I filed it away and turned back to the door. Another group rolled up—three girls, all heels and lip gloss, giggling my name.
"David, pleeease, can you get us in?"
I took their IDs, waved them through, and ignored the lingering stares. Time blurred. One a.m. came and went, then two. The club turned into a furnace—bodies grinding, voices slurring, the air thick with liquor and desperation. My head pounded, and my hands itched for action that hadn't come. I stepped outside for a breather, the San Francisco fog hitting me hard, cold and damp against my skin. Harrison Street buzzed beyond the alley—cars crawling, a siren wailing faintly in the distance. It felt normal, a slice of the city I knew well.
Then a scream shattered it.
"Help!"
"She's down!"
I moved fast, shoving through the crowd with my elbows out, my heart kicking into overdrive. It was the booth. Ricky's girl lay sprawled on the floor, her body limp like a broken doll, her pale eyes wide and unblinking. People gawked around her, phones out, filming instead of helping. Ricky hovered, his hands flapping uselessly as panic cracked his voice.
"She just—shit, she just fell!"
"I don't know what happened!"
I dropped to my knees beside her, the sticky tile cold under me. CPR. I'd done it before—once on a drunk who'd choked on vomit, once on a guy who'd overdosed in the bathroom.
"Move!"
I barked it, pushing Ricky aside. Her chest wasn't moving, and her lips had turned blue. I tilted her head back, checked her airway—nothing blocking it. Pinching her nose, I breathed into her mouth. One breath, two.
Her eyes snapped open.
I jerked back, but I wasn't fast enough. Her teeth sank into my forearm, biting down hard with a wet crunch that tore through skin and muscle. Pain flared, sharp and blinding, like a hot knife twisting in me.
"Fuck!"
I yelled, ripping my arm free. Blood welled up fast, dark and thick, spilling over my skin. The crowd screamed, people scattering like startled rats. She lunged again, her jaw snapping an inch from my throat. I grabbed her shoulders and slammed her back to the floor. She weighed maybe 110 pounds, but she fought like a wild animal, thrashing and clawing at me. Her nails raked my arms, leaving red streaks that stung. Before I could pin her fully, she bit again—Ricky's leg, a girl's hand, some guy's calf. Eight people in seconds, all of them howling as blood pooled on the floor. The club dissolved into chaos.
"Get her off!"
Someone shrieked nearby, their voice piercing the noise. I pinned her arms down, pressing my knee into her chest to hold her still. She snarled, a low, guttural sound that didn't feel human. Spit flecked her lips, and her eyes rolled back, wild and empty. Marcus rushed in, grabbing her legs to help me. Lisa appeared with a bottle and swung it hard, cracking it over the girl's skull. The glass shattered, but it didn't even slow her down. She kept thrashing.
"Zip ties!"
I shouted, my voice hoarse. Lisa tossed me a pack from behind the bar—John kept them stashed for nights that got out of hand. I looped the ties around her wrists and pulled them tight, then did the same to her ankles. She bucked against them, snapping her teeth, but she couldn't break free.
"What the hell is this?"
Marcus panted beside me, wiping blood off his cheek with a shaky hand. It was hers, not his, smeared from the struggle.
"I don't know."
I said it through short gasps, my breath ragged. My arm throbbed, the bite burning deeper than it should. Blood soaked my sleeve, warm and sticky. John pushed through the crowd, his face set in a hard line as he took in the scene.
"Cops are on their way."
"Five minutes out."
He paused, his eyes locking on my arm.
"David, you okay?"
"I'm fine."
I lied, the words tasting hollow. The bite felt alive, pulsing with something wrong. I pressed my hand against it, but the blood kept seeping through my fingers. The crowd split apart—half of them bolting for the exits, the other half frozen, filming with their phones like this was some twisted show. Sirens wailed outside, red and blue lights flashing through the grimy windows. The SFPD rolled in heavy—four officers, guns drawn, shouting orders.
"Hands up!"
"Back away from her!"
One of them barked it, his voice cutting through the panic. I stepped back, raising my hands. She was still snarling on the floor, the zip ties cutting into her wrists as she fought them. A stocky cop with a buzz cut knelt to cuff her properly. She snapped at his face, and he swore, slamming her down harder.
"Restrain her!"
"She's on something bad!"
They hauled her out, still growling and thrashing, into the back of a paddy wagon. I watched, my pulse hammering in my ears. No one asked questions yet—not the cops, not the bitten, who clutched their wounds and sobbed in confusion. Ricky babbled to an officer, his voice frantic.
"She was fine, I swear!"
I barely heard him. My head was spinning. John gripped my shoulder again, his hand steady despite the madness around us.
"Go home, man."
"You're bleeding."
"I'll handle this mess."
I nodded, too dazed to argue. The bite burned, and a feverish heat was creeping up my arm. I grabbed my jacket from the back room and slipped out the staff exit. The fog swallowed me whole, cold and thick, as I stumbled up Folsom Street toward the 16th Street Mission BART station.
The platform reeked—of urine, unwashed bodies, and stale air. Homeless people huddled in the corners, wrapped in blankets, their eyes either glassy or sharp with suspicion. I slumped onto a bench, my head swimming. The bite itched, then flared with pain. My stomach churned, bile rising in my throat as the night's chaos replayed in my mind.
The train screeched into the station—covered in graffiti, windows smudged with grime. I stumbled aboard and collapsed into a seat. A guy in a stained hoodie sat nearby, muttering to himself and rocking back and forth. Across the car, a woman clutched a shopping bag, staring at me like I was a walking corpse. Blood stained my sleeve and hands, impossible to hide. I pulled my jacket tighter, but the coppery smell of it followed me, choking the air.
The ride to Hayward was a nightmare. Lake Merritt station passed in a blur, then Fruitvale. My stomach twisted harder, and sweat beaded on my forehead, cold and clammy. By the time we hit Colosseum station, I couldn't hold it in anymore. I lurched to my feet, staggered to the corner of the car, and threw up. The vomit hit the floor hot and sour, splashing across the filthy tiles.
"Fucking nasty."
The hoodie guy growled it from his seat, his voice rough with disgust. He shuffled away from me, his movements jerky. The woman with the bag turned her face, gripping it tighter. I wiped my mouth with the back of my hand and sank back into my seat. My arm throbbed, and the fever dug deeper, sinking its claws into me.
Hayward station came at last. I stumbled off the train, my legs shaky, the platform empty under flickering lights. My apartment was a mile away—a small, cramped walk-up on Mission Boulevard. I made it there somehow, fumbling with my key until the door gave way. I collapsed onto the couch, too exhausted to move further.
My vision blurred as the fever spiked, sweat soaking through my shirt. I dragged myself to bed, kicking off my boots, and fell onto the mattress. Darkness rushed in, fast and unforgiving, pulling me under.