Arena 70 is jam packed tonight. The heady smell of weed and cigarettes permeates in the air between the booze and copious hairsprays. Llua the Black's hulking figure in the middle of the couch paints him as a king among his loyal subjects. Unlike Archie, he has not disowed his heritage for the sake of integration. No, the Black Beast of Sunset Bay will never bow down to any one of foreign blood. He will not forsake his forefathers' Gods to pray under the fake gilded roof of the Holy Triad. Llua the Black is always first and foremost a proud descendant of the fiercest warriors ever to live in Lunar Isle. Archie won't admit it, but he envies Llua's pride; wishes he possessed a fraction of it even. His jaw clenches. Marlo, the Beast's right-hand man, gestures for him to come over from the other side of the room.

"Come find me later," Perla pats Archie's back, whispering to his ear. "I'll be at the bar with Kas. Do you want me to get you anything?"

"Something strong. I have a feeling I'll need a shot or two after this."

His bestfriend winks, fading into the direction of the bar. Steeling his nerves after a heavy sigh, Archie ventures straight to the Black Beast's table on the VIP section.

He steps foot into the swarm of warm bodies crowding the dance floor. Tonight's DJ begins playing the next set of tracks. It's a mix of radio hits raging from Pet Shop Boys, Wham! and the likes to melancholy ballads someone's grandparents are playing at three o'clock sharp on any given afternoon.

The glittering disco ball hanging from the dark ceiling casts fractured lights to every one and no one. Using his elbow Archie wades through a string of curses thrown by enraged dancers and the onslaught of sensory assaults. The young man reaches the other end of the room perfectly intact yet now covered in a myriad of odours.

He clicks his tongue. "First thing to do when I get home is a long shower."

"Tough crowd?" Marlo comments, watching Archie adjusts his shirt and jean jacket.

"Tough week."

The man nods, unimpressed. As if Mad Marlo is a type easily impressionable. The lanky man tilts his head to the side. "Try not to fall behind."

"I won't," rebukes Archie.

Together they climb the spiral staircase leading up to the second floor. Half-way up the young man stops, grabbing the handrail for support. He shuts his eyes, taking slow, steady breaths. A burst of cold air pricks the hair on his skin, defeaning his senses as though he's wrapped in an airtight cage. His vision grows dark; the staircase has turned into a spiraling entity driving him dizzy.

Marlo whistles. "Shit, man. How long have you been avoiding it? Need a hand?"

"I'm fine." Archie lets go. He dabs away the beginnings of sweat from his temples with the back of his hand, steadying his footing. "Let's not keep your boss waiting."