Perfume, Tobacco & Cash

Neon pulses flicker through the foggy streets as you near the infamous Cathouse, its holographic signage crackling against the night sky.  The automatic doors slide open with a hiss, releasing a swirl of synthetic perfumes and burnt ozone, mixing with the dense scent of tobacco in the air.  A faint hum reverberates through the metallic walls, barely drowning out the muffled whispers and rhythmic beats echoing from deep within the labyrinthine corridors.