Zay, 27, is working the door at the divey Mission bar Horsies, the kind of place where a youngish crowd sports stick-and-poke tattoos and pretends to enjoy natural wine. In his left hand, heavy with silver jewelry, is a thin Capri cigarette. “I like looking incredibly cunty,” he says with a raised eyebrow and a smirk. He’s in “the industry,” the byword for the waiters, service workers, and sound engineers that keep a city alive after dark. In that world, smoking is a sacrament.