Midnight City. A black hole. A pimple on the ass end of the universe. As was previously established, it isn't always midnight here, and the sky isn't always a seething mass of tumbling storm clouds, but it sure as shit feels that way. Even when you're inside with a scotch in one hand and a dame on either arm, you can still feel the phantom slide of the slimy raindrops on your skin. Fingers sliding questing and indecent down the curve of your spine.
Hands off, buddy. Buy a guy a drink first.
No one comes to Midnight City if they have anywhere else to go. You vaguely remember mentioning something like that before, but you'd been a little bit sloshed back then, not gonna lie. So sloshed that you'd let some mouthy out-of-towner come in and push you around. Rope you into some escapade you know is only going to end in misery.
Everything you do always does. You're in the business of misery, and in Midnight City—
