He waited.
The club never really slept. It only changed tempo.
The music breathed heavy through the walls, smoke curled around legs like restless spirits, and lights kept flashing in uneven rhythms. Reds, blues, greens, a carousel spinning too fast to stop.
Paul waited.
No drink, no phone, nothing in his hands. Just still.
The crowd moved below him. Dancers, hustlers, ghosts dressed like people. The noise was too loud to understand, but none of that reached him. His eyes were fixed on the tinted glass wall few metres away from him.
Behind it, Roxy was talking to someone. The lights inside were dim, shadows thick. From this side, it looked like a puppet show behind a fogged screen. Gestures, motion, no sound. Most people couldn't tell who was who. But Paul wasn't most people.
When he saw a face once, it stayed. Burned into memory like a film reel he couldn't turn off.
He leaned a little, trying to find the right angle. The reflection off the glass caught the neon signs, warping every shape, but the silhouettes inside were still readable to him. Roxy's hand movements — fast, exaggerated. The other man — motionless, like a statue.
The one who never moves doesn't have to prove anything.
He blinked slowly, his mind already building the missing parts.
The glass wasn't giving him much, but that didn't matter. The picture was complete in his head — the way people fill in the blanks when the story's half told.
Then the door inside opened. Light spilled across the floor, cutting the dimness for a second.
Another man entered.
The posture was enough. The deliberate calm in his steps, the way the air around him seemed to thicken.
Even through that tinted glass, Paul's gaze found him. Recognition followed like a shadow catching up.
Roman.
Every illusion shatters when his gaze lands on someone.
That was his thing — he didn't just see people. He remembered the way they existed. The weight of them.
And Roman had a weight that didn't leave the room when he walked in.
Roxy said once between drags, "You don't mess around with them. Best advice? Stay outta their way."
Paul believed that without needing proof. He could see it now. The quiet kind of power. The one that doesn't raise its voice.
Roman stood at the end of the table, speaking low, barely moving his lips. A single command. The man next to Roxy nodded quick, disappeared. Roxy didn't move.
Paul kept watching. The glass threw back flickers of color that broke across Roman's outline — blue, red, then dark again. He didn't blink. Didn't shift.
So it's really him.
Roman lingered. Said a few more words. Smoke rose faintly from his side — cigarette or cigar, didn't matter. Everything about him felt unhurried.
The kind of stillness that came from knowing you didn't need to run.
Roxy stood. A deep. Polite bow. It's not respect... Not really. You bow only like this when someone playing with your fragile heart.
Then it was over.
Roman stayed. Roxy walked out, the door shutting soft behind him.
Paul leaned back, eyes fixed on the faint swirl of smoke inside the room, imagining how the conversation must've sounded. Quiet. Short. Final.
So that's your director, huh?
And the rest of us are just actors playing the script.
When Roxy came out through the door, the tension in his shoulders was already gone. His grin came back like nothing had happened.
"Hey! Sorry, that took longer than I thought."
Paul nodded once.
"Boss had to double-check the numbers," Roxy said, rubbing his neck. "You know how these guys are. Counting everything twice like someone's gonna rob 'em mid-sentence."
"Everything good?"
"Yeah, clean and clear. All wrapped."
Paul nodded again.
Roxy stretched, cracking his knuckles. "C'mon, let's get a seat before my legs quit on me."
They went down the metal stairs. Every step hummed under the bass. The music grew heavier, the air thicker — sweat, smoke, heat.
Down here, everyone was part of the act.
They pushed through a knot of dancers, flashing lights catching skin, glass, and glitter. A girl laughed too loud near the pole. A man shouted at no one in particular.
Chaos choreographed perfectly.
They found an empty booth near the far wall.
Paul sat facing the stairs — and more importantly, the upper floor. The tinted window glowed faintly above them. He could still make out Roman's silhouette moving behind it. The perfect view.
Roxy slapped his shoulder. "Finally, bro. You look like you needed this. Want somethin'?"
"Whatever his majesty orders." Paul's lips curved slightly.
"That so?" Roxy raised his brows. "I ain't into anything fancy, you know that, right? I'll just take the usual."
"Sure."
"Everything's coming from the stash tonight," Roxy said, still checking. "You sure?"
Paul lifted both arms like saying, Why not?
"Alright then." Roxy grinned, flagged down a waitress. "Two chilled, and yeah — the usual. Two packets."
Paul's mind drifted.
I'm not making it home tonight… unscathed.
The waitress left. Roxy leaned back, yawning. "Man, feels like the longest day of my life. You wouldn't believe how picky they get about the bag. You give 'em one wrong detail and boom — paradise."
Paul hummed, gaze distant.
"You know how many zeros that thing was worth?" Roxy tapped the table. "Enough to make me consider early retirement."
Should've retired when you had the chance.
The beers came. Two glasses. Cold, sweating.
And two small folded packets.
Roxy opened it, tapping it against the back of his hand. "You in, right?"
Paul tilted his head. "Is that a question?"
A small grin flickered on Roxy's lips. "Didn't think so."
They leaned in. The first hit was sharp, clean. The kind that cut through all the noise in your skull. Then another, just because.
Paul's heartbeat steadied. His vision softened at the edges, but everything felt clearer.
The world melted a little, colors dragging behind movement like light trails.
"Good?" Roxy asked, watching his half-smile. "You look like you just saw God."
"Maybe I did."
Roxy laughed, hitting another line. "Man, you're weird sometimes. You don't talk much, but when you do, it's always some heavy crap."
Paul raised his beer. "In the name of God then."
They drank.
Around them, the club performed.
Every face was an actor, every gesture rehearsed.
The lights were spotlights. The floor — a stage.
Roxy and Paul — just two extras with bad timing.
A few tables away, two men argued over a game. A girl brushed past them, perfume cutting through the smoke. Roxy's eyes followed her, then snapped back.
"So how's everything going?"
Paul lifted a brow. "With?"
"With your chick and all?" Roxy asked. "Or you already moved on?" His tone was meant to be casual, but the weight of curiosity slipped through.
Paul paused, gaze dropping to the table. "Going in a good direction, you could say that."
"Good? You sure, bud? She ain't pulling some double team with you?"
Paul's silence stretched too long. He didn't flare up, didn't blink. Just sat there until the space between words felt thick. Finding the words. The forgotten script.
Roxy waved it off quickly. "Hey, don't overthink, man. I was just— just giving you an example from a different angle."
"No, it's alright." Paul's voice came slower now, heavier. "But she ain't that type. At least… from what I know about her. The time we spent together. She wouldn't do something like that. Even if she did, she'd tell me. She's not some knockoff bitch you find on the street spreading legs for anyone."
Yeah, yeah. Chill, man. I didn't mean it like that. Roxy scratched his nose, awkward. "Yeah."
For a moment both fell silent.
Music.
Flashing lights.
Smells of perfumes, sweat, smoke.
Puppets playing their role on the stage.
Then another line. Smooth, fast. He had gotten better I'll tell you that.
But the instant zip inside the skull had never gotten old.
In that small. Tiny, little bit moment. When everything just... Just —————— yeah. That moment is the real heaven. Free from everything.
Though i wouldn't suggest you should ever try this shit. Why? 'Cause you'll be lying dead on yo mama's lap before you realise what hit you.
The emptied glass landed with the thud. And as always everything started to piece together. Roxy watched him. Still watching. Then Paul's gaze lifted slowly. Matching his.
Hollow.
Roxy forced a laugh, signaling the waitress. "Refill, please."
Two more drinks arrived. Roxy started prepping another line, his motions slower now, but precise.
"How's this world treating you nowadays?" he asked, eyes focused on the powder.
"Just fine." Paul's tone was flat. "But this place is different. Here I can feel."
Roxy laughed softly. "Yeah, right. I love this place too. No rules, no bosses breathing down your neck. Just people doing their thing."
"Yeah."
Roxy leaned closer, half-shouting over the bass. "You ever think about getting on this side of the river? Like, actually?"
Paul looked up. "This?"
"Yeah, you know, real work. Not that 9-to-5 joke. The kind that pays."
Paul thought a moment. Then said quietly, "I'll pass."
"Ha! You say that now."
Roxy kept talking — stories about bad deals, missing money, people who vanished mid-job. Paul listened without hearing. Every word just filled space.
Every story in this world ends the same. Just different names.
Another round. Another burn.
By now, the haze pressed against Paul's mind like a soft hand, but his eyes stayed clear. Always clear.
Then — movement above.
Near the railing, Roman appeared again.
He leaned forward, scanning the crowd below. Calm. Cold. Detached.
A ringmaster watching his circus.
Paul saw him and didn't blink.
There you are. I've been waiting.
Roman turned, said something to his men, and walked toward the exit.
Paul's pulse steadied. Not fast. Not slow. Just right.
Something clicked into place.
He set his glass down. "I'll go take five."
Roxy didn't even look up, busy laughing at something the another man said.
Paul stood, pulled his hood up, and walked toward the stage.
The music dimmed behind him. The lights faded.
The crowd kept dancing — puppets on invisible strings, spinning under colored light.
Then Paul disappeared into the stage.