The scene opened with a booming bass line pumping and pulsing into the nightlife ambiance. The bass was the heartbeat of the crowds coming to and going from the one lively place in the concrete jungle that was Lonely Ridge: The Hendrix. This nightclub, seen from the outside, was merely a den of excitement that the locals loved and visitors steered clear of. However, The Hendrix was so much more than that, though. It was the most coveted spot of the rundown city, because of its personality and the fact that it welcomed folks of all life into its company. It didn't matter where one came from, their wealth, or their popularity. Everyone was equal in The Hendrix, or so the locals said.
Not far from the nightclub was a parked car in the lot of Lonely Ridge's pharmacy, which was a building that was one and the same with the rest of Lonely Ridge. The girl sitting behind the wheel of the car adjusted her earrings one more time, the teardrops of zirconium and sapphire trembling as she took a shaky breath. She was going to be fine, she kept telling herself. Her visit to The Hendrix would go well, like her other visits had in the past. This didn't settle the feeling of uncertainty building in her stomach, though. She brushed her hand over her left thigh, straightening her evening dress and briefly touching the pistol resting in its holster on her leg. As a U.S. Marshall with a scar-filled past, she knew that if her visit went south, she could easily turn someone into hamburger, if the situation called for it. However, she felt the echoes of her past in Lonely Ridge add to her current uneasiness, as if the life she had left in this town was resurrected with her return. That was nonsense, though.
The girl snapped back to the present and took another deep breath. She sighed, shutting off the car. She stepped out and locked the vehicle behind her, then sauntered down the sidewalk to The Hendrix. Confidence radiated from her as she grasped the curved handle of the club door, no sign of anxiety or stress in her features. Whatever had unsettled her so much was then forgotten as she entered the club. Her past, she vowed, would not undo her.
Meanwhile...
Once inside The Hendrix, the man in the trenchcoat assessed the nightlife around him. He released his bated breath and sucked in an air of relief, relaxing his tensed figure. He was going to be fine, he told himself. No one had noticed him come in, nor did anyone pay attention to the fact that his trenchcoat faded off of his body. His shady attire was now replaced by a white dress shirt, suspenders, and a light pink bow tie. He made his rounds on the outskirts of the dance floor, idly chatting with guests and downing a glass of wine in the process. He had been biding his time until he felt the moment was right to take to the floor, halfheartedly talking with guests as he stared down at his wine glass and waited. There was something about the dance floor that made him come alive, and he hadn't been able to put his metaphorical finger on it over the past ten years. He had lost the spark that he had once held at that time, and he hadn't been the same since. Still, one could never put a proper bet on what was capable of happening in the nightclub. It held an interesting past, just as the man possessed.
Finally, he felt a rush like he used to feel over a decade ago. The Hendrix was beckoning him, and he wouldn't deny its call any longer. He found himself in the company of a girl he hadn't seen before, probably because she was visiting Lonely Ridge. As he danced with the girl, he soon learned that she was a journalist, and she was staying in the rundown town because she was writing about the bloody parts of its history. "Lonely Ridge and Its Murders," she called her article. Before the man knew it, one dance passed, then two, then three. In the midst of the fourth dance he was sharing with the writer, he looked up from the center of the floor as the front door of the club swung open. He caught the eye of the female guest that had entered, which was an accident on his part. Suddenly, time itself stopped as the man's gaze remained on the girl, his heart hammering in his throat.
The girl was just as entranced as he was, frozen in place at the door. She hadn't meant to catch his eye, she had only glanced up to observe the club in full swing before resting her eyes on him. Now, however, she couldn't bring herself to look awaawayy. Something about him was definitely familiar to her, but she didn't know what. In the same second that everything had stopped upon their staring, the club came back to life and commenced like it had before. The man could now feel the writer stop, hear her calling to him as he continued to watch the girl at the door. Instead of staying put, the girl blushed and walked away, hoping that whatever had happened was just a freak accident. However, the man politely excused himself from the writer and took to pursuing the girl, hoping that his eyes hadn't played tricks on him, as he had felt there was something familiar about the girl during their staring. He started to sweat from the heat of the crowd and his feverish pursuit before he silently spoke a prayer that his past and his wine weren't forsaking him. He felt the spark of life he had once possessed remain with him as he stepped off the dance floor, and he took to desperately searching the tables and cliques gathered in corners of the club to find the girl he thought he had met before.