The Anchorage throbbed, a living, breathing beast of bass and revelry. Tiger Cat pushed through the heavy double doors, the humid night air immediately replaced by a wall of sound and the cloying sweetness of spilled rum and sweat. The fete was in full, glorious swing. Bodies writhed, a mosaic of flashing skin and vibrant fabric, under strobing lights that painted the scene in psychedelic bursts. Rags, soaked with sweat and pure euphoria, whipped through the air like frenzied birds, a thousand arms conducting the symphony of chaos. Horns blared, a metallic chorus cutting through the insistent thump of the DJ’s mix.

She moved with an almost unnatural grace, her bare, calloused feet barely registering the sticky grime on the polished concrete floor. The crowd, a sea of gyrating forms lost in the rhythm, parted for her, then closed behind her. Many, eyes glazed with rum and something stronger, mistook her for another performer, a late-arriving dancer, or an avant-garde artist. They grinned, some reaching out, their fingers brushing the smooth curve of her thigh or the taut expanse of her stomach beneath the tailored stretch of her costume. A low whistle, sharp and insistent, cut through the din.

"Aye, look at de cat!" a man, shirtless and glistening, shouted above the music, his eyes wide and unfocused. He swayed, spilling a potent-smelling drink down his chest. "You come to play, eh?"

Tiger Cat offered no response, her gaze sweeping the throng, searching for faces that didn't belong, for the predatory glint in eyes too sober for the scene. The main floor of the Anchorage pulsed, a single organism of joy and abandon. VIP guests, a more sedate but equally inebriated set, clustered in a raised area to her left, feeding at a trough of premium liquor and gourmet bites. Their laughter, though muffled by the general roar, carried a hollow, privileged ring. The air grew thick with the scent of marijuana, mingling with the perfume of expensive cigars and cheap body spray.

A woman, her face flushed and her hair wild, grabbed Tiger Cat’s arm. "You's a dancer, right? From, what, Tobago?" Her grip was surprisingly strong, her breath hot with alcohol. "You move like you born on de stage, girl."
Tiger Cat gently disengaged her arm, her movements fluid, almost imperceptible. "Just enjoying the vibe." Her voice, a low purr, was barely audible over the speakers. She needed to move, to blend, to observe without drawing too much attention. The anonymity of the crowd was her cloak.

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