Above, the Nox Populi Nightclub is a thumping, throbbing place of sweat, blood, and sex. Men, women, and the poseurs in between, all dance and laugh, not knowing what the truth of the world is. That truth, at least a portion of it, is below ground, buried, in its own sarcophagus; a cross-section of the greater world.
At the back, discreet people in the know point White to a stairway leading downwards. In contrast to the bright lights and the vibrancy of life above, the below is heavy. This is the Elysium proper, filled with expensive furniture in rich woods and thick black and purple curtains in blacks draped and puddling on the floor.
Within the common areas, in silent repose with his leg crossed ankle to knee, sits David Regan. His eyes trained on the Latin of Per Ardua Ad Astra and the art of the stars just above his head.
White