Grandfather can’t go into the club.

Liam and Owen work as bouncers at a high-class club. When an old man tries to get in one day, they treat him badly. Their boss doesn’t want “that kind of person” in the club, and the bartender drugs him too. The man’s secret name comes out, but it may be too late for them and their boss.

A strong bass beat on Mr. Wilson’s chest like a heartbeat that wouldn’t stop, very different from his own calm heartbeat. The neon light coming from the club’s huge mouth cast horrible shadows on the cobblestones. The sign up top said, “Inferno: Where Every Night is Scorching.” He felt like a moth drawn to a flame—foolish and out of place. Still, maybe something pushed him forward—a dare from his granddaughter or a flash of anger from his youth. He fixed his tweed jacket, a holdover from the days when suits fit like a second skin, and walked up to the iron gates that led into the club.

Two figures came out of the darkness, bathed in the sickly red light of a floodlight. A lot of protein shakes had helped young guys, barely out of their teens, get bigger. The bigger one, Liam, laughed. “ID, please, Grandpa,” he asked with a fake sense of humor in his voice. Mr. Wilson’s smile was real, and the insult didn’t bother him. “No need, young man,” he told him. “I assure you, I’m well past needing identification.” Owen, the shorter one, laughed. “Then you no longer need to be here either. No, this is not a senior center. This is Hell.” Mr. Wilson’s smile broke, and he looked hurt. But he straightened his back, and his sadness turned into defiance. “I see,” he said, getting louder. “And what, pray tell, makes this inferno exclusive?”

Liam pumped his chest up. “Old man, this club has rules. People who feed off the heat are the only ones we let in.” Mr. Wilson laughed dryly. “My boy, heat without substance is just smoke and mirrors. Your door policy sounds more like a draft, to be honest.” Owen, always the practical one, stepped in when Liam got angry. He put up his hand and said, “Look, gramps, there are rules. Only with reservations.”

Mr. Wilson’s eyebrow went up. “Reservations, you say?” He tapped the screen of his phone with a twinkle in his eye. “Consider it done.” Right away, a confirmation email rang on his phone. Liam and Owen just stood there and stared as Mr. Wilson walked right by them while the heavy bass played a song of victory. There was a different world inside. Lasers cut through the smoky air, strobes made short portraits on people’s sweaty faces, and mirror balls rained constellations onto the dance floor. The bass made his bones shake; it was a primitive beat of youth and freedom.

But Mr. Wilson could feel a hollowness beneath all the shine and life. The smiles were fake, the laughter was brittle, and the moves looked practiced. These young fireflies danced in the fire they had made, but their light wasn’t warm. Owen showed up next to Mr. Wilson, still hurting from being made fun of at the door. “Lost, old man?” he asked with a grin, but there was a hint of doubt in his eyes. Mr. Wilson gave a nice smile. “Just taking in the view,” he said. “Quite…stimulating.” Owen laughed. “This isn’t your bingo night, grandpa. I have no idea what you expect to find here.” “Perhaps,” Mr. Wilson said, “I’m not looking for anything. Sometimes it’s enough to just be in the present.”

He moved through the crowd, avoiding bodies and flying arms. The air was heavy with the smell of sweat and spilled booze. When he got to the bar, he sat down on a stool. The old leather felt nice against his warm hands. “Whiskey, neat,” he asked. The young waitress, whose arms were covered in tattoos, looked at him with interest. “Are you sure, pops? Hard stuff for a flower as delicate as you.” Wilson’s eyes sparkled. “Perhaps delicate, but not sad, young man. A good whiskey, like a good life, is full of flavor, even if it’s strong.” The bartender was interested and poured a large amount. When Mr. Wilson raised the glass, the strobe flashes were caught by the golden liquid, which looked like tears. “To fireflies,” he said, “may they find their true warmth.” When he took a sip, the hot burn was a nice change from the club’s fake coolness.

As he enjoyed the taste, a figure slid up next to him with a sly smile on his lips. It was Owen once more. “So, gramps, enjoying the heat?” He looked right into Mr. Wilson’s sharp eyes. “Appreciating the view, young man,” he responded. “One learns much from watching the dancers in the fire.” Owen stayed, buzzing around Mr. Wilson’s calm presence like a wasp. He leaned closer and said, “You know, this ain’t no ordinary fire. We follow rules and laws. People like you tend to throw off the balance.” Mr. Wilson’s eyebrow went up. “At peace? What do you call it?” Owen laughed. “Don’t mess around, old man. This club loves the idea of being exclusive.” “And what happens when someone like me, a stray ember,” said Mr. Wilson, “comes along and throws a bucket of reality on your precious flames?”

Owen’s eyes narrowed. He glared at a group of girls laughing by the DJ booth and said, “You see that? That is Lucho’s desk. He doesn’t like it when people come over without being asked.” Mr. Wilson felt a chill down his spine, but it wasn’t from fear. He sensed something dark going on beneath the club’s shiny exterior. Lucho looked like the tough guy who kept the Inferno’s pyre burning bright. Adam, the bartender, was nervously cleaning a glass while sneaking looks at Owen and Mr. Wilson. He looked at Mr. Wilson and heard a quiet plea for help. Adam swallowed, torn between duty and fear.

“Just finish your drink, pops,” he said in a low voice. “And maybe…head out soon.” There was a wry smile on Mr. Wilson’s face. “Thank you, young man, for being nice. I haven’t stopped watching the fireflies dance yet, though. Please give me another whiskey.” His attention was drawn to a lot of activity near the back door. Owen, with a twisted face, leaned over the bar and pulled Adam, the bartender, into a tight group. Though they were whispering, Mr. Wilson saw something spark in Owen’s hand. Their faces were lit up by the sickly red light of a nearby strobe. A dark bottle, shining like a dangerous star, went from his hand to Adam’s and was swallowed by his sleeve. A cold thought gripped Mr. Wilson’s heart. He saw Adam come up behind him, holding a tray dangerously in his shaking hands. It had a second glass of amber liquid sitting on top of it, like a spider in its web. Mr. Wilson looked from Adam’s shaking hands to the drink that was shimmering, then back to the vial that Owen had put in his pocket.

All of a sudden, a huge figure with gold chains and an air of brewing rage walked toward them. It was Lucho. “You,” Lucho yelled. “The old man who thinks he can waltz in here and disrupt the rhythm.” When people in the crowd felt the tension, they spread out like water ripples. Mr. Wilson looked at Lucho with quiet anger as he held the glass that hadn’t been tampered with. “I only wanted to watch the flames,” Mr. Wilson said. “Perhaps, to offer a different perspective on the heat.” Lucho’s laugh was rough and annoying. “Perspective? Old man, this isn’t an art show. This is Hell, where we burn and do what we want, like drink your blood!” Lucho’s thick paws grabbed Mr. Wilson’s second drink. He wasn’t sure if he should stop the huge brute, so the old man paused. It was too late, though. Lucho drained the whole glass. After that, he opened his mouth as if to say something else. But he closed his eyes. It looked like he was taking a nap as his body sagged against the bar and then fell to the floor.

Mr. Wilson was spun around when a heavy hand clamped down on his shoulder. “You!” Liam growled with a suspicious look on his face. “Lucho is hurt. What did you do?” With a calm look of defiance, Mr. Wilson met his eyes. “Nothing, kid. I did nothing but watch as this young, big man stole my drink and then immediately fell asleep.” Owen, always looking for a chance, spoke up and said, “He’s lying! I saw him fighting with Lucho just before he passed out.” There was a new voice in the fight. “That’s enough!” Antonio, Liam and Owen’s boss, yelled. “If you two idiots can’t kick an old man out of my club, I’ll have to do it myself.” He put his hands on Mr. Wilson’s arm and started to pull. “Are you sure you want to do that…grandson?” Mr. Wilson asked. “It’s time for the real boss to show up.”

Antonio stopped in his tracks when he heard those words. His eyes, which had been narrowed and angry, opened in a flash of recognition. As his hands shook, the iron vice grip on Mr. Wilson’s arm began to soften. “Grandfather?” Antonio muttered. “Wh-why are you here?” Wilson let out a sigh. “To see, Antonio,” he replied. “To see what your pride and greed have done. Check out what you’ve turned this into: a club. I gave you the club to run.”

He looked over the shocked crowd in a broad sweep. “This…this Inferno,” he said, his voice getting stronger, “is not what I had in mind for you, Antonio. It was meant to be a safe space for creativity and energy, not a place where egos can play and people feel left out.” His plain, simple words cut through the Inferno’s surface to reveal the rot inside. Antonio felt bad about what he had done. “Enough,” Mr. Wilson said in a strong voice. “In the morning, we have a staff meeting. Each and every one of you.” His gaze fell on Liam and Owen, making them shrink under his stern, unwavering eyes. Adam, the bartender, flinched when the owner, whom he had never met, looked at him closely.