He walked onto the main floor of The Hollow . The DJ saw his face and cut the music. The fire-eater paused mid-exhalation. Two hundred faces turned toward the man in the snakeskin jacket.
At 34, Johnny wasn't a rock star, an actor, or an influencer. He was something rarer in this city of desperate climbers: an atmosphere . His lifestyle was the entertainment. People didn't come to The Hollow for the overpriced gin; they came to see Johnny. They came to watch him lean against the bar in a vintage snakeskin jacket, to witness him murmur something to a visiting heiress that made her laugh too loudly, to hope he might glance their way. johnny dark cock
Leo blinked. “No?”
The neon lights of the Veridian Strip bled into the puddles on the asphalt, painting the night in shades of electric magenta and synthetic gold. Johnny Dark stood at the velvet rope of his own club, The Hollow , and lit a cigarette he had no intention of smoking. The smoke curled around his angular jaw like a ghost’s whisper. He walked onto the main floor of The Hollow