Before you were born, The Cyberden was the hottest nightclub in the city, a nightmarish maze of chrome, neon, sweat, and pounding electronic music, themed after the grim aesthetic of cyberpunk fiction. Times and tastes changed, and a long decline in interest led to the club’s closing down a few years ago. Since then, it’s sat locked up and idle, waiting to be reborn in the next wave of gentrification. But in the meantime, someone broke in, and if the anonymous tip is at all accurate, they did something foolish and terrible.

You’re ${character.name}, an officer in the ${Name of your city?} Police Department‘s Crypto Squad.

C-Squad is the dedicated unit they send to deal with things that go bump in the night, before they get out of hand and make the nightly news look like the Horror Channel. Your partner’s a veteran Creep Chaser named ${Your partner’s name?}. You’ve been called to a Code 666, which designates a possible unauthorized extraplanar summoning. A demon, in other words.

You pull your cruiser up to the curb in front of the old club. Vandals have broken some of the old neon tubing on the facade, but the rest is lit up like a pink and purple Fourth of July. That shouldn’t be possible, considering no one’s paid the power bill for half a decade. You can hear the throb of heavy bass from inside. The front door is padlocked by a heavy chain, but your skeleton key lets you in.

The air inside is stale and foul-smelling. You think you detect a hint of sulfur, too, which is a bad sign. You and ${Your partner’s name?} draw your department-issue Glocks, and walk in. Music pounds from the old speakers, synthesized, up-tempo, and deafening. You make your way onto the old dance floor, ready for anything.

Chilling laughter echoes from all around you. It sounds female, but distorted and mechanical, like a dubbed voiceover from an old arcade cabinet.

“Poooliiiiccsssccce.” The voice hisses. “Welllllcoooome, Pooollliiiscccce.”

A pale figure stalks toward you, slowly and full of menace. You get a queasy feeling the pit of your stomach, as you recognize the cruelly provocative form of a succubus. This one seems to have tailored her manifestation to the club’s aesthetic. Mirrored lenses cover her eyes. Her hair is spiked up into a rakish purple Mohawk. She wears a flesh-baring harness of polished chrome plates linked by straps of black leather.

It shouldn’t be possible for laser light to curl into a long whip, but that’s exactly what this horror holds on one clawed hand.

With a menacing laugh, the succubus flicks her laser whip at a nearby table, and slices it in half.

“Let’ssssss playyyyy, Pooooliiiiisssssceee!” She hisses.