Liam and Owen are two bouncers in an elite club. One day, an elderly man tries to enter, but they maltreat him. Their boss doesn’t want ‘such a person’ in the club, and even the bartender poisons him. The man’s hidden identity is revealed, but it might be too late for them, including their boss.

The throbbing bass pounded on Mr. Wilson’s chest like an insistent heart, a stark contrast to the steady rhythm of his own. Neon light, bleeding from the club’s gaping maw, painted grotesque shadows on the cobblestones. Above, the sign boasted: “Inferno: Where Every Night is Scorching.”

Mr. Wilson, however, felt more like a moth drawn to a flame, foolish and out of place. Yet, perhaps, something – a dare from his granddaughter or a flicker of youthful defiance – propelled him forward. He adjusted his tweed jacket, a relic from a time when suits fit a man like a second skin, and approached the iron gates guarding the club’s entrance.

Two figures, bathed in the sickly red glow of a floodlight, materialized from the shadows. Young men, barely past their teens, bulked up by more protein shakes than life experience. Liam, the taller one, sneered. “ID, please, Grandpa,” he said, voice dripping with mock amusement.

Mr. Wilson’s smile was genuine, unfazed by the barb. “No need, young man,” he said. “I assure you, I’m well past needing identification.”

Owen, the shorter of the two, snorted. “Then you’re past needing to be here too. This ain’t no senior center. This is Inferno.”

Mr. Wilson’s smile faltered, a flicker of hurt crossing his eyes. But he straightened his back, defiance replacing disappointment. “I see,” he said, his voice firmer now. “And what, pray tell, makes this inferno exclusive?”

Liam puffed out his chest. “This club has standards, old man. We only let in the kind of people who add to the heat, not extinguish it.”

Mr. Wilson chuckled dryly. “Heat without substance is merely smoke and mirrors, my boy. And frankly, your door policy sounds more like a draft.”

Liam bristled, but Owen, ever the pragmatist, intervened. “Look, gramps,” he said, raising his hand. “We have rules. Reservations only.”

Mr. Wilson raised an eyebrow. “Reservations, you say?” He tapped his phone screen, a glint in his eye. “Consider it done.”

Within moments, a confirmation email pinged on his phone. Liam and Owen stared, mouths agape, as Mr. Wilson strolled past them, the heavy bass beat a triumphant fanfare. Inside, a different world awaited.

Lasers sliced through the smoky air, strobes painted fleeting portraits on the sweating faces, and mirror balls rained constellations onto the pulsating dance floor. The bass vibrated through his bones, a primal rhythm of youth and abandon.

Yet, beneath the glitz and the thrumming vitality, Mr. Wilson sensed a hollowness. The smiles seemed painted on, the laughter brittle, the movements practiced. These young fireflies danced in their self-created inferno, but their light lacked warmth.

Owen, still smarting from humiliation at the door, appeared beside Mr. Wilson. “Lost, old man?” he smirked, but his eyes betrayed a flicker of uncertainty.

Mr. Wilson smiled politely. “Just admiring the scenery,” he said. “Quite…stimulating.”

Owen scoffed. “This ain’t your bingo night, gramps. Don’t know what you expect to find here.”

“Perhaps,” Mr. Wilson replied, “I’m not looking for anything. Sometimes, simply witnessing the present is enough.”

He navigated the crowd, dodging flailing limbs and swaying bodies. The scent of sweat and spilled alcohol hung heavy in the air. Reaching the bar, he perched on a stool, its worn leather cool against his warm palms.

“Whiskey, neat,” he requested.

The bartender, a young man with ink swirling across his arms, looked at him with open curiosity. “You sure, pops? Rough stuff for a delicate flower like you.”

Mr. Wilson’s eyes twinkled. “Delicate, perhaps, but not wilted, young man. And a good whiskey, like a good life, is full of flavor, however harsh.”

The bartender, intrigued, poured a generous measure. Mr. Wilson raised the glass, the golden liquid catching the strobe flashes like tears. “To fireflies,” he toasted, “may they find their true warmth.”

He took a sip, and the fiery burn was a welcome contrast to the synthetic coolness of the club. As he savored the taste, a figure sidled up with a sly smile played on his lips. It was Owen again.

“So, gramps,” Owen said, his voice low. “Enjoying the heat?”

Mr. Wilson met his gaze, his eyes sharp. “Enjoying the observation, young man,” he replied. “One learns much from watching the dancers in the fire.”

Owen lingered, a wasp buzzing around Mr. Wilson’s calm presence. “You know,” he drawled, leaning closer, “this ain’t just any inferno. We have rules and standards. People like you…they tend to disrupt the balance.”

Mr. Wilson raised an eyebrow. “Balance? Is that what you call it?”

Owen scoffed. “Don’t play around, old man. This club thrives on exclusivity.”

“And what happens when someone like me, a stray ember,” Mr. Wilson said, “comes along and throws a bucket of reality on your precious flames?”

Owen’s eyes narrowed. “You see that?” he snarled, gesturing towards a group of girls giggling by the DJ booth. “That’s Lucho’s table. He doesn’t take kindly to…uninvited guests.”

A shiver of apprehension ran down Mr. Wilson’s spine, not from fear but from the undercurrent of darkness he sensed beneath the club’s glittering facade. Lucho seemed like the muscle, the enforcer who kept the Inferno’s pyre burning bright.

The bartender, Adam, nervously polished a glass, casting furtive glances toward Owen and Mr. Wilson. Mr. Wilson caught his eye, a silent plea for information. Adam caught between loyalty and fear, swallowed.

“Just finish your drink, pops,” he muttered. “And maybe…head out soon.”

Mr. Wilson smiled, a wry twist of his lips. “Thank you, young man, for your concern. But I haven’t finished observing the fireflies’ dance just yet. Another whiskey, please.”

His gaze snagged on a flurry of movement near the back entrance. Owen, his face contorted, leaned over the bar, pulling Adam, the bartender, into a hushed huddle.

As they whispered, their faces illuminated by the sickly red glow of a nearby strobe, Mr. Wilson saw something flicker in Owen’s hand. A vial, glinting like a malevolent star, passed from his grasp to Adam’s, swallowed by the darkness of his sleeve.

An icy premonition gripped Mr. Wilson’s heart. He watched Adam approach with a tray balanced precariously in his trembling hands. A second glass of amber liquid sat on it, perched like a spider in its web.

Mr. Wilson looked from the glistening drink to Adam’s twitching hands, then thought back to the vial that had vanished into Owen’s pocket. Suddenly, a hulking figure, adorned with gold chains and an air of simmering violence, strode towards them. It was Lucho.

“You,” Lucho boomed. “The old man who thinks he can waltz here and disrupt the rhythm.”

The crowd, sensing the tension, parted like ripples in a pond. Mr. Wilson, still holding the untouched glass, met Lucho’s gaze with quiet defiance.

“I merely sought to observe the flames,” Mr. Wilson said. “Perhaps, to offer a different perspective on the heat.”

Lucho’s laugh was harsh and grating. “Perspective? This ain’t some art gallery, old man. This is Inferno, and here, we burn and do what we want, like take your drink!”

Lucho’s meaty paws grabbed Mr. Wilson’s second glass. The old man hesitated, wondering if he should stop the hulking brute. But it was too late. Lucho downed the entire glass. His mouth opened after, seemingly to say something else. But his eyes shut.

His figure slumped against the bar and finally lay on the floor like a baby during nap time.

A heavy hand clamped onto Mr. Wilson’s shoulder, spinning him around. Liam, his face contorted with suspicion, snarled, “You! What did you do to Lucho?”

Mr. Wilson met his gaze with calm defiance. “Nothing, young man. I merely watched as this young, big man stole my drink and promptly fell asleep.”

Owen, ever the opportunist, interjected, “He’s lying! I saw him arguing with Lucho right before he collapsed.”

A new voice joined the scuffle. “That’s it! If you two idiots can’t kick an old man out of my club, I’ll have to do it myself,” Antonio, Liam and Owen’s boss, snapped. His hands reached Mr. Wilson’s arm and began to pull.

“Are you sure you want to do that…grandson?” Mr. Wilson asked, giving up. Time for the real boss to appear.

The words stopped Antonio in his tracks. His eyes, narrowed and hostile, widened in a flicker of recognition. A tremor ran through his hands, the iron vice grip loosening around Mr. Wilson’s arm.

“Grandfather?” Antonio croaked. “Wh-why are you here?”

Mr. Wilson sighed. “To see, Antonio,” he said. “To see what your greed and arrogance had wrought. To see what you’ve made of this place you call a club. The club I gave you to run.”

He cast a sweeping glance over the stunned crowd. “This…this Inferno,” he continued, his voice gaining strength, “is not what I envisioned for you, Antonio. It was meant to be a place of passion, of creativity, not a playground for ego and exclusion.”

His simple and clear words sliced through the Inferno’s veneer, exposing the rot beneath. Shame crept into Antonio’s eyes.

“Enough,” Mr. Wilson declared, his voice ringing with authority. “We will have a staff meeting in the morning. Every single one of you.”

His brutal and unyielding gaze swept over Liam and Owen, who shrank under its weight. Even Adam, the bartender, flinched under the scrutiny of the owner he had never known.

“We will talk about respect,” Mr. Wilson continued, his voice resonating. “About inclusivity. About the true meaning of heat that doesn’t consume but illuminates.”

He met Antonio’s gaze, the hint of forgiveness warring with years of accumulated pain. “And you, Antonio, will learn to run this club not as a king of ashes but as a gardener who nurtures the fireflies, guiding them towards a light that warms, not burns.”

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