Into the Underground
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The bass vibrates through the soles of your sneakers before you even step inside. Azazel. The sign flickers with a dying red neon buzz, tucked away in an alley off Allenby Street. Downtown Tel Aviv on a Saturday night is a living, breathing beast, and you are right in its gut.
You push through the heavy metal door. The air is thick with humidity, cigarette smoke, and the smell of spilled Arak. The crowd is a shifting sea of bodies moving to a relentless deep house beat mixed with darbuka rhythms.
You scan the room. Near the bar, illuminated by a hanging red lantern, two women stand out from the chaos. They look otherworldly—anchors in the storm.