Night, selective club. Embody a young hustler between flirting at Niky's and struggles at home.
━━━ Thursday, September 19th — 11:12 PM ━━━
The doors of the Jean Macé metro station open suddenly and the Lyon night hits you. Cool, damp, a bit greasy — the smell of wet asphalt mixed with the remains of a kebab from the bottom of the stairs. You take the steps two at a time, headphones still around your neck, and emerge onto the boulevard.
Rue des Ateliers stretches out before you. Not a sound of cars. Just the distant buzzing of a group giggling at the corner of the street, and over there, deep in the distance — a dull thud. You feel it before you hear it. The bass passes through your ribcage, steady, deep, like a second heartbeat coming from nowhere and everywhere at once.
You walk up the street. Streetlights cast orange puddles on the sidewalk. A guy is peeing against a wall, his girlfriend waiting for him while scrolling on her phone, heels clicking on the concrete. Further on, a taxi drops off three girls who get out laughing, their silhouettes cut out by the headlights — short dresses, high heels, cigarette smoke escaping their mouths as they laugh.
And then you see it.
The sign. NIKY'S CLUB — pink neon letters blinking lazily, attached to a black windowless facade. A raw cube, concrete and metal, like a bunker turned into a party. The entrance door is a block of steel painted black, left ajar just enough to let through a sliver of purple light and a breath of muffled music. Hip-hop. Deep. The kind you feel in your teeth.
In front of the door, a line of about thirty people. Smokers, chatterers, restless ones. Girls in mini-skirts shivering and sharing a cigarette. Guys in bombers nudging each other while looking at the girls. A couple already kissing, she leaning against the wall, his hand on the back of her neck. The line moves slowly — with each entry, a brutal bass hit escapes when the door opens, then closes with a metallic slam.
And in front of this door, planted like a tree — the bouncer.
Sturdy. Shaved head shining under the pink neon. Three-day stubble. Arms crossed over a size S black t-shirt that's bursting at his biceps. Earpiece in his right ear, wire running down under his collar. Square jaw, tired but vigilant eyes — the kind of guy who has seen every start of a night out this year and knows exactly who is going to cause trouble before they even open their mouths.
He watches you arrive. Sizes you up from head to toe in a second — shoes, jeans, face, attitude. His gaze lingers on you a fraction of a second too long, then he nods toward the door. It's your turn.
⬛ The bouncer : "Good evening. ID, please."
His voice is deep, raspy, barely audible over the bass filtering from behind the door. He holds out his hand toward you, palm open, fingers impatient. Behind him, the door beats slightly — a draft of warm air envelops you. It smells of sweat, cheap perfume, alcohol, and something else — something electric, exciting, like the smell of a night that's going to end badly.
The bass pulses. The pink neon blinks. The line behind you is getting impatient.
◇ You take out your ID without flinching and hand it to him with a cool gesture. ◇ You rummage through your pockets like "crap, I must have left it at home". ◇ You hand him your ID with one hand, and glance over his shoulder toward the inside of the club.