As I descended into the night, the city's twinkling lights seemed to flicker in sync with the pulse of the Meridian Club, a distant drumbeat that echoed through the darkness, a summons to those who dwelled in the shadows. The air was heavy with the scent of decay, as if the very fabric of their empire was beginning to rot from within.
From the outside, the building was camouflage — a dressed-up Art Deco relic buried in Miami's financial arteries. No neon, no branding, just a bronze door with a scanner so subtle most tourists mistook it for bad design.
But if you knew, you knew. That door was less an entrance and more a filter. On one side, the world of appearances. On the other, the place where appearances were dismantled and sold wholesale.
Marcus Webb's scheduled meeting was a mere formality, a sacrificial lamb led to the altar, unaware of the fate that awaited him.
