The neon glow reflected off rain slicker streets. Detective McBride lit a cigar with a fidgety hand, eyes focused on the glitching neon green sign down the alley: “ Novas Hideaway.”

He came a long way following the trail - missing kids, silent witnesses, bloodstains in back rooms. Now the club. The final lead.

He crossed the street, boots splashing puddles. Inside, prominent Red-lit faces around turns away, in disgust.

Across the room, he spots her — the girl from the photo, hollow eyes, smudged makeup covered her face. She sat lifeless. Staring blankly into a wall. McBride closes in, heart pounding like drums.

Her hand motioned under the table. A gun.

It’s too late.

A quick flash. His chest burned. The lights surrounding flickered as he fell to the floor.

“ Novas Hideaway “ continues to lighten the night —- bright, uncaring, and most importantly still open for business.