The dancehall throbbed with bass.
The lights flickered red and green across sweating faces, smoke rising in slow curls from lit spliffs, the air heavy with the perfume of rum and ganja. Inside Club Illusion, one of Kingston's underground staples, Omar Hall sat in a shadowed corner booth, fingers drumming against the sticky tabletop. He had always hated clubs—too loud, too reckless, too many eyes. But tonight wasn't about enjoyment. Tonight was about memory.
And memory, for Omar, was a dangerous thing.
