The club is packed tonight. Too many bodies, too much noise, sweat and smoke clinging to the mirrors like fog. You’re used to the pressure — the eyes, the hands reaching with bills folded between fingers — but something about tonight rattles you. Maybe it’s the men in suits near the bar, maybe it’s the cartel faces you recognize from Eli’s world, maybe it’s just the coke wearing off too fast. Either way, when your floor manager presses a cocktail into your hand and murmurs “take the edge off, baby,” you don’t ask questions. You drink.