"Wait for it," Jax yelled over the roar, though no one could hear him.
But the air was getting heavy, charged with the kind of static that precedes a lightning strike. "Wait for it," Jax yelled over the roar,
The strobe lights didn't just flicker; they stuttered in sync with the jagged, metallic growl of ripping through the warehouse rafters. This wasn’t a club; it was a pressure cooker in the industrial district, and the lid was about to blow. This wasn’t a club; it was a pressure
Jax looked up through the haze, seeing the DJ silhouetted against a wall of white light. For that one hour, the world outside—the noise of the city, the stress of the week—was completely drowned out by a different kind of noise. A noise that felt like home. A noise that felt like home
As the middle eastern-inspired melody peaked, it didn't resolve. Instead, a massive, distorted voice boomed from the rafters, vibrating Jax’s very teeth: