The club hadn't stopped breathing yet.
The lights blinked lazy in rhythm, smoke crawling low, air thick with cheap perfume and sweat. The music hit like a pulse—steady, dragging everything along.
Roxy sat alone in the booth, legs stretched, head tilted back. His eyes half open, face calm, but his pulse had that uneven beat that only comes after too many lines. The world around him felt both too loud and too far away.
He looked at the empty space beside him.
Paul's seat. Still cold.
He sure is a good guy, he thought. A little weird, but good.
Roxy laughed to himself, leaning forward, elbows on knees. He tapped a few lines on the table, sniffed, blinked twice, and let it hit. The blur felt nice. Heavy but clean.
"Where this bastard went?" he muttered, chuckling low. "Probably found himself another mirror to stare at."
He leaned back, eyes wandering, voice echoing inside his own head.
The crowd kept moving. Flashing lights. Sweat on every shoulder. Every song the same. Every face a blur.
A few minutes passed.
The high started fading, slowly.
"Ain't he taking too much time?" he said to no one.
He lit up a cigarette. The lighter flame caught the edge of his reflection in the beer glass—eyes red, lips twitching from the beat. Smoke slid up from his nostrils, curling soft before disappearing in the haze.
"Did that bitch pass out or somethin'?" he said, half-laughing.
He waited again. The cigarette burned down to the filter, but his patience ran out first. He crushed the rest against the table. The sound of the bass folded in and out of his chest like waves hitting metal.
He shut his eyes for a second, the world still spinning. Then he emptied his beer. The glass landed heavy.
"Fine," he muttered, standing up.
He pushed through the crowd. People brushed against him, skin hot, shirts damp. The smell of alcohol and perfume mixed until it felt poisonous. He squeezed between two dancing girls, bumped into a guy twice his size, didn't even look up when the guy cursed at him.
He moved toward the back.
The hallway leading to the washroom felt longer than usual.
Lights flickering. A pipe dripping somewhere.
The door creaked open.
The smell hit him first—piss, vomit, and floor cleaner fighting each other.
"Paul?" he called out, voice echoing off the tiles.
Silence.
He checked the first booth.
Sound of vomiting.
He opened it with a kick—some guy on his knees, hands gripping the toilet, puking his paycheck. Not Paul.
Second booth.
Two people tangled together, bodies slick with sweat. The woman's nails dug into the guy's shoulder.
Roxy smirked. "Didn't mean to interrupt. Carry on."
Third booth.
Two women this time. Louder, wilder.
He blinked twice, smiled again. "Jesus. I like that."
Fourth.
Empty.
Fifth.
Empty.
Sixth.
A broken pipe dripping onto the floor.
Seventh.
Nothing but a used napkin and someone's phone left behind.
Eighth.
Empty again.
He stood there, breathing a little faster.
No Paul.
He splashed water on his face. The reflection in the mirror stared back, fogged and tired.
What are you doing?
He stared a few seconds longer, then looked over his shoulder. Still empty.
He left the washroom, back into the music. The bass hit hard again, shaking the floor. The air felt thicker now. For a few minutes, he searched the crowd, weaving between tables.
"Paul?"
Nothing.
"Yo, Paul! You there, buddy?"
He pushed a guy near the bar. "Hey, you seen a tall guy, black hoddie?"
The man shrugged, turning back to his drink.
Roxy's voice got lost in the noise. Every shout, every beat swallowed it whole. He passed through the middle of the dance floor, lights flashing across his face in red and white streaks.
He looked back at the booth.
Two empty glasses. Crushed cigarette.
Paul's chair untouched.
He stared at it for a few seconds. The sound of the club started fading, like someone turned the volume down in his head. The crowd moved like puppets on a stage, strings jerking, faces empty. The clowns had taken over again.
He looked up.
To the upper floor.
The tinted glass. The place where Paul was waiting earlier.
"The spot where he was waiting for me."
He felt something twist in his stomach.
He moved.
Through the crowd, pushing past dancers, his steps quick, his breath shallow. The lights flickered faster. Every shadow looked longer.
He climbed the metal stairs, each step groaning under his boots. His hand brushed the railing — slick, cold.
He reached the top, looked down. The crowd below blurred, a moving sea of color.
"Where the hell this bastard went?" he muttered.
His thoughts raced back.
That night Paul beat up those three guys without blinking.
If he did the same again…
"Swear to Christ, if he pulled that again, I'm gonna kill him myself."
He looked toward the VIP section. The door where his boss sat earlier. Lights dim now, almost dark.
Roxy exhaled through his nose, forcing a laugh. "Maybe he went home."
He pulled his phone from his pocket.
Why the hell didn't I do that before?
He called.
It didn't ring.
Switched off.
That uneasy feeling crept back, slow at first, like something cold crawling up his neck.
He turned toward the stairs leading up to the second floor.
"Just for satisfaction," he told himself.
His footsteps echoed. Each one heavier than the last.
He reached the second floor.
At first, it was quiet. Too quiet. The bass from the club below muffled now, like heartbeat through a wall.
Then—movement.
His traced the figures. Not much people here.
He saw a shape slumped against the wall.
A man.
Head hanging down, body still.
Roxy stopped. "Yo," he said, snapping his fingers.
No reaction.
"Drunk idiot," he muttered and kept walking.
His hand reached for the door. The surface was cold under his palm.
He hesitated for half a breath, then pushed.
The hinges screamed.
Darkness.
Pitch black.
He took one step in. His boot hit something small and hard. He crouched, felt around the floor.
Something thin, cold.
He picked it up.
An injection.
He turned it in his hand, the faint club lights flickering against the glass. The liquid transparent. Barely a drop left.
Roxy's pulse jumped.
"What the hell…" he whispered.
He shoved it inside his jacket pocket.
Something was wrong. He didn't know what, but he could feel it pressing on him.
He closed the door behind him. The sound of the latch echoed like a gunshot in the dark.
His feet started moving. Up the next set of stairs. The walls narrowed. The air colder.
Every step heavier.
Every breath louder.
He could barely hear the music now. Just the sound of his boots, darkness had already swolled him up.
Halfway up, he stopped.
His chest tight.
It felt like the walls were watching.
He looked back once—nothing but black.
So he kept going.
When he reached the top, he stopped again, one hand resting on the railing.
He exhaled slow, like bracing for a punch.
Then he opened the door.
At first, the dim light blinded him. Then the scene took shape.
Mark on the floor. Still. Like he was sleeping.
A little further away, Nice. The same.
No wounds. No blood. Just… still.
"Fucking fuck…" Roxy whispered again, voice cracking this time.
The room was half clean, half chaos.
One chair tipped over. Cards scattered across the floor, across the table.
But everything else—fine.
The old cardboard boxes stacked in the corner. Posters on the wall. The clock still ticking.
Nothing broken. Nothing stolen.
Except for the silence.
Roxy's mind ran wild. "What that motherfucker done?"
He turned toward the exit door. His heart pounding so hard it hurt.
He swung it open.
The metal door slammed against the wall, the sound cutting through the hall like thunder.
Outside—quiet.
Same alley walls, same dim light from the far street.
He took one step. Then another.
The air felt colder now, heavy.
Why the fuck am I trembling?
Then—movement.
Left side.
He turned his head, slow, like his neck didn't want to obey.
There.
Paul.
Few steps away, one knee bent, a knife glinting between his fingers. His other hand brushed at something on his leg, slow and precise, like cleaning a stain.
Roxy froze.
The world shrank to that one point.
Paul straightened slightly, as if he had known Roxy was standing there all along.
He turned his head. Their eyes met.
A smile spread across Paul's face. Calm. Soft.
Too soft.
"You're finally here," he said, voice even.
"Thought you'd miss it this time too."