The Lincoln Club loomed ahead like some glitchy TikTok filter come to life—way sicker than Tommy and I ever hyped it up during our broke-ass daydreams in the back of algebra.
Three floors of old warehouse turned nightlife cathedral, bricks painted that flat blackout matte, with only the giant LED sign screaming LINCOLN CLUB in electric cobalt and violet pulses that made the whole street feel like we'd portaled into a different zip code.
The bass smacked me from halfway down the block. Not just noise; actual pressure waves rolling through the Phantom's soundproofing, through the buttery leather, straight into my ribcage until my heartbeat was like, "yo, sync up or get left."
That thump-thump-thump that hijacks your spine before your brain even clocks what's happening.
The line snaked around the corner—two hundred kids deep, all pressed against the velvet ropes like they were waiting for the pearly gates of cool.
