The neon sign above the entrance of "The Bunker" buzzed with a dying hum, casting a flickering yellow light over the damp pavement. Inside, the air was thick with the smell of cheap cologne and desperation. It was a Tuesday night, which meant the crowd was thin, the drinks were watered down, and the owner, a man named Sal with a gold tooth and a temper, was looking for excuses.
By midnight, the floor was packed.
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