Condensation dripped down the side of Anton’s cocktail glass in alternating reflections of chartreuse, teal, and violet. The bar’s ambient lights transitioned among the three shades in a sad attempt to mimic the exclusive clubs in Haven Hill. His glass was a lonely disco ball lighting up an empty dance floor, the party-going Mids too despondent to rise from their seats and too apathetic to even speak. Fuzzy elevator music rambled in the background. The drink itself was supposed to be a color-changing Roulette cocktail, the preferred beverage of Haveners, but the bitter concoction in front of him was a poor-man’s imitation. Its mood-modifying effects barely registered in his brain. Still, it was the best he could get in Midtown.