"I'll go take five," he said, voice steady, almost lazy. He stood, tugged his hood up, and scanned the room one last time. The club pulsed around him like a living thing—lights bleeding over faces, bass hitting like heartbeat after heartbeat.
Then he slipped into the crowd.
Roxy was busy with his own stuff. Maybe still talking to someone. Didn't matter. None of this did. The only thing that mattered was after.
After tonight. After Roman.
He pushed through the bodies—heat, perfume, laughter melting into a single static hum. The floor seemed to tilt under him. Every flash of light left a shadow behind his eyelids. He looked up toward the glass balcony, squinting through the haze.
Roman had been there. Paul could feel it.
The air was too heavy, too loud. He blinked, once, twice. Then it hit him.
A silent zip inside his skull.
Quick. Precise. Like someone tightened a wire behind his eyes.
The world split apart.
One room became two. Then four. Then none.
People turned to blurs—faces smearing into color, mouths opening and closing without sound. The lights stretched into long ribbons, twisting around him.
He tried shaking it off. Didn't help.
His body felt like it belonged to someone else. His limbs moved half a second too slow.
Then the threads pulled tight.
They were always there—thin, invisible, coiled around him. Tugging. Guiding. Keeping him in rhythm with something unseen.
Now they were straining, every fiber inside him twitching under pressure.
Roman's shadow flickered at the top of the stairs, just for a second, before the crowd swallowed it.
"No. You won't."
He didn't realize he said it out loud until someone turned, confused, but he was already gone.
He forced his way through the dancers, ignoring their laughter, ignoring the hands brushing against him. Sweat rolled down his temple, catching light like glass. His breathing got shallow. The air stung.
His mind felt split—half of it watching from above, the other dragging his body forward.
He caught the last glimpse of movement on the upper floor—Roman's shape slipping through the corridor, a blur of black coat and silence.
Keep moving. Follow the thread.
He stumbled once, catching himself on a stranger's shoulder. "Watch it," someone yelled, but the voice felt distant, muffled like it came from behind a wall.
The threads pulled again. Harder this time. His muscles obeyed before he could think.
He made it to the edge of the crowd, lungs burning. The lights flickered red, then white, then gone. For a heartbeat, the whole world went dark.
When it came back, he was already moving up the narrow metal stairs.
Each step rang sharp and hollow.
The air changed here—colder, cleaner. Quieter.
The haze didn't leave, it just followed slower.
The threads relaxed. Not gone, just waiting.
He stopped at the landing, gripping the railing tight. His pulse was steady again, unnaturally so. He looked up toward the corridor Roman had disappeared into.
He knew that path. He'd seen it before.
The private exit. Always guarded. Always locked after use.
He closed his eyes, exhaling slowly.
The sound of the club below faded to a low hum, like the world holding its breath.
When he opened them again, his vision was clear.
Everything had aligned.
He didn't need to see Roman now. He already knew where the thread would lead.
And it was time to follow.
As he climbed the stairs, he started to undo his hoodie.
Beneath it, a plain black T-shirt clung to his skin like glue, soaked and sticking from sweat.
"Watch it," a woman called as he brushed past her.
He didn't say anything back.
Just kept moving.
Dragging his body forward.
For a moment, he felt—
No. No thinking.
His left hand clutched the hoodie tightly as he picked up pace.
He looked at the floor ahead. Roman was nowhere in sight. Obviously.
He reached the top of the stairs, then turned toward the upper corridor.
Not the exit. The entry.
His gaze swept across the floor.
One. Two. Three.
Four. Five. Six.
Six people.
He got closer to the railing, using it for balance.
His head spun, eyes refusing to steady.
Everything kept turning—people, walls, lights—until the ground felt like it was sinking under him.
He tightened his grip on the railing. Hard.
Then the door came into view.
Straight ahead.
His steps slowed, almost stopping.
One after another, slower than snails.
The threads pulled again.
Tightening around his wrists, coiling under his skin.
Don't touch the door. Don't move.
It whispered in a language that wasn't sound.
He exhaled, long and heavy.
Finally reached it.
His body barely stayed upright, leaning against the frame for balance.
His hand moved toward the knob—
A voice cut through the noise behind him.
"Exit ain't this way, pal."
A hand reached forward, stopping him mid-air.
Paul turned his head slowly.
The man standing beside him looked ordinary. Average build, medium-length hair, the kind of face you'd forget the next morning after a hangover.
They locked eyes.
Neither spoke.
The man's hand brushed the door.
Paul let his own hand fall.
Took one small step back.
He glanced around.
Two people at the far end, lost in conversation.
Another couple near the railing, not paying attention.
No one watching.
He looked back at the man again.
Vision still blurring at the edges.
He took one quiet step closer.
The man's eyes narrowed. Suspicion flickered there, quick, uncertain.
But it was already too late.
Paul moved like a shadow.
Quick. Controlled. Silent.
His hand snapped forward, catching the man's face and slamming it against the wall.
A dull thud followed.
Then stillness.
He caught the man's body before it hit the floor.
Held it there for a second.
Lowered it down slowly, gently—like laying someone to sleep.
He stayed there a moment, eyes on the lifeless form.
Then looked around again.
Nothing. No one.
He reached for the door and opened it. Slowly.
A thin slice of black waited beyond.
He stepped inside.
The door closed behind him with a hollow thud.
Darkness swallowed him whole.
He leaned back against the wall, breathing out, catching his rhythm.
The air here was cold. Still. Too still.
His left hand slipped into his pocket, pulling something out.
A syringe.
Barely visible. Just a thin glint in the dark.
He didn't hesitate.
Pressed it to his arm. Injected.
The rush came quick—like ice spreading through veins, cooling everything it touched.
The burn eased. The noise in his head softened.
He tilted his head back, eyes half open.
The world slowed down again.
He tried to shove the empty syringe into his hoodie pocket—the one still dangling from his hand.
It slipped and fell.
He didn't bother turning back.
Didn't matter.
He just stood there, letting his eyes adjust to the dark.
Listening.
The club felt far away now—like another world.
Only the hum of blood in his ears kept him tethered here.
And somewhere above him, the threads pulled tighter again.
He climbed the abyss.
One step at a time.
But soon, faster.
Faster.
The threads finally broke, snapping like frayed wires from his wrists.
His feet pounded against thestairs, echoing in that hollow shaft. The air grew colder, heavier. Each breath cut through him, sharp and raw.
And as he climbed, the memories crawled back—
Like something dead refusing to stay buried.
He remembered the first time he came here.
The silence that greeted him.
Thick. Suffocating.
A silence so heavy it felt alive.
Back then, he couldn't even see himself.
No light, no reflection.
No guide.
Just the sound of his own breath and the weight of nothing pressing down from every side.
A pitch-black abyss.
A hole that swallowed even thought.
But not tonight.
Tonight he was climbing out.
And no one could stop him.
The sound of the club faded behind him—
the bass, the laughter, the mechanical rhythm of the puppets on stage—
all gone.
That was the sign.
He was close.
Just a few more steps.
He could feel the blood pounding in his neck.
Roman was near.
If he missed him now—
No. He couldn't.
Not this time.
He reached the top. The door stood there, a faint outline in the dark. The end of the tunnel. The mouth of the abyss.
"I'm never coming back to this place," he muttered, the words barely audible.
He stopped moving, pressing a hand against the cold wooden.
Held his breath.
Listened.
There it was—
a sound, faint and distant.
The scrape of metal.
The closing of another door, somewhere ahead.
That's it.
He twisted the handle, fast, before the thought could fade—
and pushed the door open.
Light spilled in, thin and white, slicing through the dark like a knife.
The first thing his eyes caught were—
Mark halfway turned, mid-motion. Nice's hand frozen mid-air, holding a card. The faint rattle of the ceiling fan above, spinning with a lazy hum. In the corners, the same cardboard boxes stacked neatly, same brand, same quantity.
On the left, a faded map of Corsalis, edges curling from damp air. Beside it, a woman's poster in a red bikini.
Everything the same.
"Yeah, same as the first time," Paul murmured.
Mark's head turned slowly. His eyes narrowed, recognition hitting like a flicker of light. The guy with Roxy. The quiet one.
"What you doing here?" His voice came out low, rough.
Paul didn't move. He stood in the half-open doorway, letting the sound of the closing latch echo behind him.
Nice straightened, his expression shifting from confusion to caution. Mark's boots creaked against the floor as he stepped forward. "Answer me, you bitch. What you doing here?" Louder this time.
Paul's gaze fell to the floorboards, his tone flat. "I just… lost the way."
Mark's eyes sharpened. "Lost the way? The hell you talking about?" He stepped in again, left hand rising, ready to grab him by the collar.
The air went still.
Paul's head lifted slowly.
The hand was inches away from his shoulder.
Then, movement.
Paul's body shifted back just enough. The reaching hand missed. His right arm coiled tight, and he struck fast, the first hit landing square in Mark's abdomen. The impact forced the air out of him. Mark folded halfway, eyes wide, breath breaking.
Paul followed through without hesitation. His second punch hit the side of Mark's temple with a sharp crack. The man's legs buckled. He dropped, crashing against the corner of the table before sliding to the floor.
Nice had already moved. Chair screeching back, hand reaching for something under the table.
Paul grabbed the hood from his shoulder and flung it straight at his face. Nice flinched, the cloth wrapping over his eyes. His hand missed the weapon he was reaching for. He stumbled back into the table.
Paul moved quick. Two steps, then a small jump. His left palm landed on the edge of the table, body lifting with the push. His right leg swung forward in the same motion.
Nice tore the hoodie off just in time to see the heel of a shoe coming at him.
The kick slammed into his face. His head snapped back, striking the edge of the table. He went limp, sliding down until his body hit the floor beside Mark's.
Silence.
The fan still spun overhead, blades whispering. The cards scattered across the table and floor. One landed face-up beside Paul's shoe — the Queen of Hearts.
He stood still for a second, breathing steady, eyes scanning the room.
Then he bent down, picked up his hoodie, brushed the dust off it.
Mark's chest still moved, faintly. Nice was out cold.
Paul looked at them both once more, no expression, no satisfaction. Just another thing done.
He turned to the metal door — the final exit of the Abyss.
His hand rested on the cold handle for a second, the hum of the club now distant, swallowed by the walls behind him.
Then he pulled it open and stepped out.