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The hour is late at the nightclub dubbed Seventh Circle, and you knock upon the heavy back door. The viewing hatch opens, and pale eyes meet your own. A moment passes, and the door opens, if only a short ways. The man asks for your name. You tell him. He glances down at his list, and looks you over one last time. The corners of his mouth curl into a smile, and he stands aside, holding the door open.
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