Part of this place's charm.

Pierce carefully concealed the A.R.E.S Crusher under his coat. I walked beside him, my senses heightened by the pulsating environment. The club's exterior was a chaotic fusion of lights and sounds, the heavy bass of industrial music resonating through the air, creating a palpable, almost electric, atmosphere. Gang members mingled with the club's patrons, their attire a wild amalgamation of cybernetic enhancements and eccentric fashion.

As we approached the short line outside the Piggy Dancers Club, I could feel the curious, almost scrutinizing gazes of those around us. We were clearly out of place in this setting, our presence drawing attention. The bouncer, a burly figure wreathed in cigarette smoke, gave us a dismissive look. Pierce leaned in, his voice low. "We need to act like a couple to blend in," he murmured.