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Misa pushed through the heavy oak doors. The bass hit her like a physical blow, a thrumming heartbeat that rattled her teeth. The air was thick with synth-smoke and the smell of ozone. She navigated the crowd, moving with a predatory grace. The dancers were lost in the rhythm, their eyes glazed, smiles fixed and plastic. They were already halfway to the update; the club was nothing more than a loading bay. misa kebesheska patched