Neek gives them all a contemptuous glare worthy of any rapper or real estate developer. “Look at this shit,” he says to the rest of the New Yorks. He’s normally soft-spoken, but the amphitheater picks up his voice easily; he’s pitching it deliberately. “All of us falling through the multiverse and y’all wanna stand around playing Who’s In The Club.” “We’re in danger because of you,” snaps a man on the third tier. “No other city has had the problems you have. Of course fucking Americans would screw everything up—”
