At the young, though questioned age of 20, Aradia hadn’t had the chance to go into a club before her death. And this one ... this one was interesting. She stands before it, maroon cloak caught by the wind as she surveys the area. It’s a normal enough area surrounding the club: usual alley of dumpsters, diner across the way, busy road in front. But there was absolutely something strange about it, one she couldn’t quite figure out, and so she goes in.
The bouncers eyes slide past her as she walks through, hood pulled up and over her face as is supposed to happen, and then she’s in, looking around the club. Loud, noisy and full of drunks and those looking for fun. She smiles slightly and drops her hood down, taking a seat at a quiet booth to order a drink. It’s questionable in whether alcohol will affect her, having no pulse to take it around her body, but she’s willing to try.