The car screams Stacey — pink seats, small care bears hanging on each grab handles, pink ribbons tied on the headrests. Aiah sinks deeper into the leather seat, her backless dress pressing against it. She watch the city lights of Manila as they pass by.

"Two weeks," Stacey says from beside her. "Two weeks ka ng nandito and you couldn't send one message? One 'hey, bitches, I'm here'?"

"Are we really doing this everyday, Staku? I told you I was coming back." Aiah doesn't look away from the window. "I told you I was enrolling here."

"Pero hindi mo sinabi kung kailan." Maloi leans forward from the backseat. "Yun ang point. Kailan. You landed, and we found out through your Instagram story three days later. Three days!"

"I was jet-lagged."

"Jet-lagged for three days?" Stacey snorts. "You flew business class, not a cargo ship."

Aiah finally turns, a slow smile spreading across her face. "Fine. Maybe I wanted to surprise you."

Maloi's eyes go wide. "You call this a surprise? Sana alam mong humagulgol ako when I saw that story. I was in the middle of a commission, and I just started sobbing over my tablet."

"You cry at everything."

"That's not the point!"

The driver keeps his eyes fixed on the road, his face carefully blank. He's been driving for Stacey's family long enough to know that whatever happens in the backseat stays in the backseat.

"Okay, okay." Aiah holds up both hands in surrender. "I'm sorry. I should've told you. I was just…" She pauses, the smile faltering for half a second. "I needed to settle in first. Get my head straight."

Silence.

Maloi and Stacey exchange a look — the kind of look that says they've had this conversation before, without Aiah in the room.

"Speaking of getting your head straight," Stacey says slowly, her voice dropping, "has he tried to contact you?"

Aiah's jaw tightens.

The name hangs in the air. Mingyu. The anger boils in her chest just by thinking about it. Six years. Six years of her life, and he'd thrown it away like it was nothing, like she was nothing.

"I don't want to talk about him."

"We just want to know if he's been bothering you," Maloi says gently.

"He hasn't." Aiah's voice is flat. "He knows better."

"Good." Stacey nods. "Because I swear to God, if that bastard even thinks about stepping foot in the Philippines —"

"You'll kill him?" Aiah raises an eyebrow.

"I'll do worse. I'll make sure every airline in the country flags his name. His face will be on every 'do not board' list."

Aiah chuckles.

"I'm serious." Stacey's eyes harden. "You spent six years with that piece of shit. He doesn't get to walk into your new life like nothing happened. I'll be a fucking criminal and I won't even care."

Aiah looks at her friend — really looks at her. Stacey's pink hair is freshly dyed, her designer outfit immaculate, but the fierceness in her expression has nothing to do with fashion. It's the look she gets when she's ready to fight someone for the people she loves.

Aiah sighs. "I appreciate it," she says quietly. "I really do. But I came back here to be with you guys. To start over. And I don't want to waste any more time thinking about him."

"Then we won't mention anything about that punyeta again," Maloi declares. "His name is banned. Canceled. Redacted. Extracted. Evicted. Forever."

Stacey nods. "If he ever shows up here, we kill him. But we don't talk about him."

Aiah chuckles. "You two are insane."

"Insane and loyal," Maloi says. "Winning combination kaya wag niya kami subukan."

The car turns a corner. Aiah can see the club ahead. The line outside is long, full of people in their early twenties dressed to impress.

"Speaking of winning combinations," Stacey says, her voice lightening, "I need to get absolutely wasted tonight."

"Same," Maloi agrees. "I have a project due next week, and I don't want to think about it. At all."

Aiah smiles. "Last weekend of freedom. We have to make it count."

"Actually, may list ako," Maloi says, pulling out her phone. "A whole list of things I want to do tonight."

"Patingin." Stacey leans over, squinting at the screen. "Okay, one: dance until my feet hurt. Two: drink something that tastes like juice but hits like a truck. Three: kiss someone who actually knows how to kiss."

"That's the dream," Maloi sighs. "Yung huli kong ex parang isda humalik. Jusko. Just… mouth open, no rhythm, no finesse. I felt like I was being eaten."

Aiah snorts. "Eaten?"

"Eaten. Like a sandwich. A very wet sandwich."

"Tangina naman, sis." Stacey shakes her head. "I did not need that image."

"You're welcome." Maloi grins, then looks at Aiah. "Ikaw? What's on your list?"

Aiah leans back, a slow smile spreading across her face. "I want to get wild."

"Wild how?" Stacey asks, her eyebrow arching.

"Wild like… I want to forget everything. Every name, every face, every memory that's been weighing me down. I want to get laid tonight."

The car goes silent for a beat. Then Maloi lets out a whoop that makes the driver flinch.

"That's my girl!" Maloi cheers. "Yes! Get some! You deserve it!"

"Wait lanh, wait lang." Stacey holds up a hand. "Get laid, fine. But we're doing a background check first."

"Are you serious?" Aiah laughs. "Staku, it's a hookup, not a marriage proposal."

"Exactly. Which is why I need to make sure that person is not a serial killer or, worse, a friend of redacted."

"You're impossible."

Stacey crosses her arms. "You're my best friend. I'm not letting you go with just anyone. They needs to pass the vibe check, the looks check, and the 'does this creature have a criminal record' check."

"You can't actually run a criminal background check on a stranger."

"Watch me."

Maloi cackles. "Seryoso yan. She did it to my last boyfriend."

"He had a misdemeanor from 2019," Stacey says flatly. "Shoplifting. A pack of doublemint."

"He stole gum?" Aiah's eyes widen.

"Yup."

"Okay, that's kind of funny."

"It's not funny. It was a red flag." Stacey shakes her head. "Anyway. Background check. Non-negotiable."

The car pulls up to the curb, the neon sign casting purple and blue shadows across their faces. Aiah can hear the muffled thump of music from inside.

"Fine," she says, reaching for the door. "Background check. But I'm choosing who I dance with."

"Deal." Stacey grabs her purse. "But I'm watching. From a distance. With judgment."

"And I'll be the distraction," Maloi adds. "If you need to make a quick escape, I'll cause a scene. Yung mayayanig buong club."

Aiah laughs, and for a moment, she feels light. Free. Like the weight of the past year is finally starting to lift.

She steps out of the car. Her heels click against the pavement, her backless dress catching the breeze. The line outside the club is long, but Stacey's already walking past it, flashing a smile at the bouncer who recognizes her and waves them through.

Aiah follows her inside, and the music hits her instantly — bass thumping, lights flashing, bodies moving in the dark. The air is thick with perfume and sweat and the electric buzz of a night that could go anywhere.

Maloi grabs her hand, pulling her toward the bar. "First round's on me. What are we drinking?"

"I'll go for whiskey. Neat," Aiah says, her eyes already scanning the crowd. "It's the only thing that'll make me forget my own name."

Maloi signals the bartender. "Paloma cocktail, one bottle of your strongest whiskey. Neat. and one —" she looks at Stacey, who's already eyeing the dance floor, "— ano sayo, Staks?"

"Vodka soda," Stacey says. "And keep them coming."

The bartender nods. They walk toward the reserved VIP couch and settles down. Aiah crosses her legs and leans back on her seat comfortbaly. She lets the music wash over her. This is what she needed. The noise, the chaos, the feeling of being surrounded by people who don't know her past, don't know her pain. Just another woman in a club, looking for a good time.

"Here are your drinks, ma'am." The bartender puts down the tray carefully. "Enjoy."

Aiah opens the bottle and pours a good amount in her glass. Then she picks it up and raises it. Maloi and Stacey do the same with their drinks.

"To the last weekend of freedom," Aiah says.

"To getting absolutely wasted," Maloi adds.

"To not seeing Jhoanna's face anywhere in this club," Stacey mutters.

Aiah and Maloi exchange a quick look. They see the way Stacey's jaw tighten, her fingers wrapping a little too tightly around her glass.

Maloi sighs. She wants to say something but stops herself.

"She's not here," Aiah says firmly. "And if ever she is, I'll handle it. You don't have to worry about her tonight."

Stacey doesn't respond. She just takes a long sip of her drink, her eyes fixed somewhere in the middle distance.

"Anyway!" Maloi's voice is too bright, too forced. "To getting laid! Aiah's mission tonight!"

Aiah laughs, grateful for the subject change. "To getting laid."

They clink glasses, and she downs her drink in one go. The tequila burns going down, but it's a good burn. A cleansing burn.

~~

The whiskey bottle sits half-empty on the low table. Stacey's seventh vodka soda sweats onto a coaster, and Maloi swirls her paloma like it's a fine wine instead of the sixth one she's lost count of.

"I have a question," Maloi slurs, pointing a wobbly finger at Stacey, then Aiah, "if you could fight one historical figure, sino?"

Aiah chuckles. "That's a weird question."

"Dali na."

"Hmm." Stacey taps her chin. "Jose Rizal. Kasi wala lang. Parang ang satisfying i-slap yung mukha na nasa pera."

Maloi's jaw drops. "You want to fight a national hero?"

"He's been dead for over a century. I think he can take it."

Aiah laughs, her head tipping back against the couch. The world tilts with her, spinning in a pleasant, hazy way. She's drunk. Properly, gloriously drunk. And despite that, she still pours herself another glass. The whiskey glugs into the crystal, and she doesn't bother measuring. She never does.

Maloi turns to her. "You, sino?"

Aiah takes a sip. "I'd fight whoever invented alarm clocks."

"Oh, that's good." Stacey points at her approvingly. "That's a real enemy."

"And whoever invented crop tops that don't stay in place," Maloi adds, tugging at her own top. "Bwisit. I've been adjusting this thing all night."

The conversation drifts into the comfortable nonsense of drunk friends. They debate whether mermaids would be terrifying or beautiful. They argue about the best snack food. Stacey insists it's cheese sticks. Maloi fights for turon. Aiah abstains because she's too busy finishing her glass.

Then the opening synth hits.

Stacey's eyes go wide. "Wait. Wait. Wait."

Maloi's head snaps up. "Is this—"

The vocals start, and all three of them scream.

"STAY THE NIGHT!" Maloi shrieks, nearly dropping her drink. "THIS IS OUR SONG!"

Aiah's heart lurches with pure, uncomplicated joy. Because this song — this stupid, perfect song — takes her back to a smoky club in Los Angeles, to a night when she was still whole, still blinded by Mingyu's betrayal. Maloi and Stacey had flown in for a week, and they'd snuck into a club with fake IDs, giggling and terrified and so alive.

They'd danced to this song. Screamed the lyrics like it was their own anthem.

"I can't believe they're playing this," Stacey says, already on her feet. "This is a sign, sis. This is the universe telling us to go wild."

"The universe is telling us to get off this couch." Maloi grabs Aiah's hand, pulling her up.

Aiah stumbles. "I'm going. I'm going."

They down their drinks in one synchronized gulp and then they're moving, weaving through the crowd toward the dance floor. The music wraps around them, loud and warm and familiar.

The dance floor is packed. Bodies press against each other. But Aiah doesn't care. She lets the crowd swallow her, lets the bass take over her body.

She starts dancing. Her hips move with the rhythm, her arms above her head, her backless dress riding up slightly.

Stacey turns to Aiah and Maloi. "Are you gonna stay the night?~" she sings along.

"Doesn't mean we're bound for life~" Aiah continues.

"So-oh-oh-oh-oh~ are you gonna stay the night~" Maloi follows, showcasing her vocals.

The song builds.

The beat drops.

And they jump like they're at a concert instead of a club.

They're a mess. A beautiful, chaotic mess.

Aiah closes her eyes and lets the music take her somewhere else. Somewhere without Mingyu. Without the six years she wasted. Without the ache that still lives in her chest when she lets herself think too long. Here, in the dark, with the bass in her bones, she's just a girl dancing. Nothing more.

The song ends too soon. Another one starts — something with a heavier beat, less familiar. Aiah opens her eyes.

Maloi's gone.

She blinks, scanning the crowd. Hair with bangs — no, that's not Maloi. That's some other girl. She looks left, right, behind her.

Stacey's vanished too.

Aiah laughs to herself, swaying on her feet. The crowd presses around her, and she lets herself be carried by the motion. She doesn't worry. Not really. This club belongs to Stacey's cousin, and the bouncers know them by name. Her friends are somewhere in this mess, dancing their own dance.

She closes her eyes again. She keeps dancing. The new song has a good groove, and she lets it move her. Her body sways, her hips roll, her hands trace down her sides. She's in her own little world, a bubble of music and sweat and the pleasant buzz of whiskey in her veins.

When she opens her eyes again, there's a guy in front of her.

He's too close. Close enough that she can smell his cologne that doesn't quite mask the beer on his breath. He's good-looking, she registers vaguely. Sharp jaw, nice smile, fitted shirt showing off arms that clearly spend time in a gym.

But he's not her type.

She doesn't know why she thinks that. She just does. There's something about him that leaves her cold, even through the whiskey warmth.

"Hey," he says, loud enough to be heard over the music. "You dance really well."

Aiah gives him a polite smile. "Thanks."

She turns away, hoping he takes the hint. He doesn't.

"I'm Marco." He steps closer, invading her space. "What's your name?"

"Not interested." She keeps her voice flat, hoping he hears the dismissal.

"Come on, don't be like that." He grins, and it's supposed to be charming, she can tell. It misses by a mile. "I've been watching you in this dance floor. You're here alone?"

"I'm not."

"Your friends left you." He gestures vaguely at the crowd. "I saw them go."

"They're around."

"Then they won't mind if we dance."

He reaches for her waist.

Aiah steps back, her body tensing. "I said I'm not interested."

"Just one dance." He moves closer again, his hand outstretched. "What's the harm?"

Her palm aches. She's about to slap his hand away, about to make a scene, when —

An arm wraps around her waist from behind.

Aiah freezes.

The arm is gentle but firm. Possessive in a way that should feel alarming but doesn't.

"Babe," a voice says, low and smooth, right by her ear. "I was looking for you."

Aiah's brain short-circuits.

Marco's eyes widen. "Oh. Shit. I didn't know she was with someone."

"She is." The voice is polite but firm.

Aiah turns her head slightly, trying to see through her blurry vision. The lights are too bright, her head too foggy. But she catches a glimpse: red hair. Eyes half-lidded, clearly drunk, but focused.

The woman pulls Aiah closer, and Aiah's back presses fully against her chest. She can feel the curve of her, the warmth of her. This woman smells like a baby powder that makes Aiah want to sniff all day long. The arm around her waist tightens, a silent promise of protection.

Marco takes a step back, his hands raised. "Sorry, man. I thought she was single."

"She's not."

"My bad. Enjoy your night."

He disappears into the crowd, swallowed by the bodies and the smoke and the flashing lights.

Aiah can only watch him go, her mind too focused on the arm around her waist. The way it holds her like they've done this a hundred times before.

The woman slowly removes her hand.

Aiah turns around.

And there she is.

Red hair falling in waves past her shoulders. Fair skin that glows under the club lights. Sharp jaw. Cupid's bow lips. Dark brown eyes, half-lidded with drink.

She's beautiful. Stunningly, unfairly beautiful.

Aiah's heart pounds in her chest.

"Thank you," she manages, her voice coming out breathier than she intended.

The woman smiles. "You okay?"

"Yeah." Aiah blinks, trying to focus. "You didn't have to do that."

"He wasn't taking no for an answer." The woman shrugs. "I don't like that."

"Me neither." Aiah laughs, a little unsteady. "I was about to slap him."

"I know. I saw your hand." The woman's smile widens. "I wanted to save you the trouble."

They stand there, swaying slightly, the music thumping around them. Aiah feels the whiskey in her veins, as well as the pull this woman has.

"I'm Aiah," she says.

"Mikha." The woman's eyes crinkle at the corners. "Nice to meet you, Aiah."

"Likewise." Aiah glances around, suddenly aware of the crowd pressing in. "My friends wandered off. I have no idea where they are."

"Mine too." Mikha gestures vaguely. "I came with two idiots, but I lost them an hour ago."

Aiah laughs. "Do you want to get a drink?" she asks, surprising herself. "I mean, we're both already drunk. But. You know. Company."

Mikha smiles. "Alright. Tara."

They move toward the bar together. Mikha's hand finds the small of Aiah's back, guiding her, and Aiah lets herself be guided. It feels natural. Easy.

The bartender appears, and they order a glass of whiskey. Both neat.

"So," Mikha says, turning to face her. "What's a girl like you doing in a place like this?"

Aiah snorts. "That's such a line."

Mikha grins, unrepentant. "I'm drunk, and it's the best I've got."

"Fair enough." Aiah takes a sip of her whiskey. "I'm celebrating. Last weekend before school starts."

Mikha hums. "That's valid."

"It's totally valid. I don't want to think about how my brain will get fried in the next coming weeks, please."

Mikha chuckles. "If that's the case..." she leans forward. "Tell me some weird stuff. Something you think about when you can't sleep."

Aiah considers this. The whiskey makes her bold. "You know how people say aliens haven't visited us yet?"

"Yeah."

"I think they have. I think they're just waiting for us to figure something out. Like a test."

Mikha tilts her head, intrigued. "What kind of test?"

"I don't know. Maybe they want to see if we can get our act together before they reveal themselves. Like, 'oh, they're still killing each other over borders, let's wait a few more centuries.'"

Mikha laughs, a low, warm sound. "That's actually kind of comforting. In a weird way."

"Right? Like, they're not ignoring us. They're just disappointed."

"What about the ocean?" Mikha asks. "You ever think about what's down there?"

"All the time." Aiah's eyes go wide. "We've explored, what, five percent of it? There could be anything down there. Giant squids. Creatures that make the Meg look like a goldfish. Cities."

"Cities?"

"Why not? If we can build underwater, why couldn't some ancient civilization have done it?"

Mikha nods slowly. "You ever hear about Tartaria?"

Aiah frowns. "The thing people say was erased from history?"

"Yeah. The theory that there was this advanced civilization that got wiped out and scrubbed from the records. That all these old buildings — the ones with the crazy architecture — were built by them."

"I've heard about that." Aiah leans in. "It's wild. Like, the idea that we're living on top of a history we don't even know about."

"Exactly." Mikha's eyes are bright. "And if they were really that advanced, where did they go? Did they die out? Did they leave? Are they still here?"

"Maybe they're the aliens."

Mikha pauses. Then she laughs, loud and genuine. "Okay, that's a good theory."

"Right?" Aiah grins. "Maybe Tartaria wasn't destroyed. Maybe they just got tired of us and moved somewhere else. Left the planet to the monkeys."

"And now we're here, drinking in a club, wondering where they went."

"Exactly."

They clink glasses, both laughing at the absurdity of it all.

"I like you," Mikha says, the words slipping out easily. "You're weird in the best way."

Aiah's cheeks warm. "You're not so bad yourself."

They drink. They talk. About the ocean, about aliens, about the mysteries of the universe. Mikha tells her about the time she tried to teach herself to play the guitar and ended up breaking a string on her first day. Aiah tells her about the time she got lost in Los Angeles and ended up in a taco truck line for an hour before realizing she was in the wrong part of the city.

Time blurs. The club spins around them, but they're in their own bubble.

And Aiah can't stop looking at Mikha's mouth.

~~

The song shifts, a slow, pulsing bass that seems to crawl under her skin. Aiah feels it before she hears it—the way the air in the club changes, the way people around them start moving closer together, bodies finding bodies. She looks at Mikha, whose eyes are half-lidded, the amber lights catching the red of her hair.

Aiah smiles. She reaches out, pretending to pick an invisible speck of dirt off Mikha's black leather jacket. Her fingers linger on the shoulder, feeling the worn leather, the warmth beneath it.

"I want to dance with you," she whispers, her breath brushing Mikha's ear.

Mikha doesn't answer. Her hand finds Aiah's, and she pulls her toward the dance floor.

The crowd parts for them, or maybe it just feels that way. The bass thrums through the floor, up through Aiah's heels, settling somewhere deep in her stomach. Mikha stops in the middle of the chaos and turns to face her.

Mikha's hands settle on Aiah's waist, pulling her closer. Gentle. Testing. Aiah feels the warmth of those palms through the thin fabric of her backless dress, and she wants more.

So she turns around.

Her back presses against Mikha's chest. The leather jacket is cool against her bare skin, a contrast that makes her shiver. She hears it—a low curse muttered behind her, swallowed by the music.

"Fuck," Mikha breathes, barely audible.

Aiah smiles to herself. She starts to sway, slow and deliberate, her hips tracing lazy circles. Behind her, Mikha moves with her, matching her rhythm, their bodies finding a sync that feels practiced even though it's brand new.

Mikha's hands splay across Aiah's stomach. Warm. Grounding. Fingers pressing just enough to feel the muscle beneath, the way Aiah's breath hitches when she applies pressure.

They dance like that for what feels like hours and seconds at once. The world narrows to the heat of Mikha's chest against her back, the weight of those hands on her stomach, the bass that seems to pulse inside her ribcage.

Then Aiah grinds back.

Her ass presses against Mikha's front, and she feels it—a solid weight against her, thick and unmistakable. Her breath catches. She's not sure if it's soft or hard, but it's big. She can feel the shape of it through Mikha's jeans, the length of it pressing against the curve of her ass.

Her mind wanders. She wonders what it would feel like fully hard. What it would feel like inside her.

The thought makes her grind harder.

Her hands find Mikha's wrists, holding on, guiding. Mikha responds, grinding back, and now there's no mistaking it—the dick pressing against her is hardening, growing, thickening against her ass.

Aiah curses quietly, the word lost in the music.

She leans her head back, resting it on Mikha's shoulder, offering her neck. An invitation.

Mikha takes it. Her lips find Aiah's neck, gentle at first, barely there. Aiah hums, her eyes fluttering closed. The kisses move up slowly, tracing a path from her neck to her ear, each one a small electric shock.

Then Mikha's teeth find her earlobe. A soft nibble. A kiss. Her breath is warm against Aiah's skin, and Aiah shudders.

"Shit," she mutters, pressing her ass back against Mikha's front.

The dick is fully hard now. She can feel every inch of it, the way it strains against the denim, the weight of it nestled between her cheeks. Her own arousal spikes, wet and insistent.

Mikha doesn't stop. Her lips continue their gentle assault on Aiah's ear while her hands roam—waist, stomach, hips. Every touch is soft, almost reverent, but there's a hunger underneath it that makes Aiah's knees weak.

She can't take it anymore.

She turns her face, just enough to catch Mikha's eye. The red-haired girl leans in, kissing the corner of Aiah's mouth. A test. A question.

Aiah answers by catching Mikha's mouth with her own.

The kiss is slow at first. Soft. Their lips move together like they have all the time in the world, even though the music is pounding and the club is spinning around them. Aiah's back is still pressed against Mikha's chest, and she can feel the rapid beat of Mikha's heart against her spine.

Mikha's hand comes up to Aiah's jaw, tilting her head, deepening the kiss. The other hand stays wrapped around her stomach, holding her close. Aiah melts into it, her mouth opening under Mikha's, their tongues meeting in a slow, languid dance.

They grind against each other, the friction building, the heat between them becoming unbearable. Aiah moans against Mikha's mouth, the sound swallowed by the kiss.

Mikha curses, pulling away just enough to breathe. "You're going to kill me."

Aiah laughs, breathless. She turns her body fully, facing Mikha now, and pulls her into another kiss. This one is hungrier. Desperate. Their teeth clash, their tongues tangle, and Aiah's hands find Mikha's shoulders, gripping the leather jacket like it's the only thing keeping her upright.

Mikha's hands travel down Aiah's bare back, tracing her spine, then lower. They find her ass, palming it, squeezing softly. Aiah moans again, pressing into the touch.

The kiss breaks when they're both gasping for air. Aiah's forehead rests against Mikha's, their breath mingling.

Aiah kisses Mikha's jaw. Then her cheek. Then the corner of her mouth again, a soft, lingering peck.

Mikha's hands move to Aiah's dress, tugging it down. It had ridden up while Mikha was palming her ass, and Aiah feels the cool air on her thighs before the fabric settles back into place. The gesture is so careful, so unexpectedly tender, that it makes Aiah's chest ache.

"We should leave," Aiah whispers, her lips brushing Mikha's ear.

Mikha pulls back, looking at her. "Are you sure?"

Aiah doesn't hesitate. "Yes."

She doesn't care about Stacey's background check rule. She doesn't care about anything except the ache between her legs and the way Mikha's eyes are dark with want. She wants this. She wants Mikha.

Mikha takes her hand, and they push through the crowd. The club is a blur of lights and bodies, but Aiah barely notices. All she can feel is Mikha's hand in hers, the warmth of it, the promise of what comes next.

They burst out onto the street, the cool night air hitting them like a shock. The city hums around them—cars passing, people laughing somewhere in the distance—but it all feels muted, distant.

Mikha hails a cab. It pulls up, and she opens the door, guiding Aiah inside.

Aiah slides across the backseat, and Mikha follows, the door closing behind them with a soft thud. The cab smells like air freshener and old leather. The driver asks where they're going.

Mikha gives an address. A hotel that's probably near this club. The driver nods, and the cab pulls into traffic.