You see that guy? Yeah, the one at the bar. White shirt, gold chain, eyes like he already owns the place. That's Ramon. He talks too loud and laughs too easily. He's always got people around him who'd stab each other just to buy him a drink. He has been running "import" work for the past five years, the kind where no one asks what's inside the boxes. Government contract by day, ghost shipments by night. He doesn't even hide it anymore. That's the thing about power; once it's big enough, you can walk around wearing it like cologne.
Now, look over by the back tables. See the guy with the buzzcut and the old military jacket? That's Kaito. He doesn't smile. He doesn't blink much either. Rumor has it he used to work intel for some special unit until he went off the grid. He just appeared one day. Started running security gigs, small deals, data trades. The kind of stuff you don't put in emails. People say he can make anyone disappear—not by killing them, but by deleting them. Like they never existed.
The big guy near the dance floor? That's Briggs. You can tell by how the crowd moves around him. He has a big frame, a bald head, and a scar near his jaw. He runs protection rackets for half the nightclubs in the east end. He doesn't carry a gun—doesn't need one. When you've got hands like sledgehammers and a temper like his, the city works as your weapon. And that smirk? That's a man who's broken enough bones to forget how many.
And that quiet one, sitting alone by the stairs, smoke curling from his cigarette? That's Vico. He has sharp eyes, wears a dark suit, and has no entourage. He doesn't talk to anyone unless he's buying or selling something worth killing for. He has that look—the kind that says I know things you'd rather stay buried. No one really knows who Vico works for, and that's what scares everyone.
Different corners, different drinks, but the same tension.
All four in the same club tonight. Coincidence? Maybe. But in this city, coincidences are just traps waiting to snap.
And me? I'm just watching.
From the upper floor, tucked in the dark with a half-empty glass.
The music's too loud, the lights too fake, and every single face in here is lying about something. But not them. No, those four don't lie. They promise.
And promises from people like that? They always come with bodies.
Ramon. Yeah, that's his guy. Paul thought so, eyes half-closed, cigarette burning down between his fingers. Don't tell me you forgot about that night? Good. Because Paul sure didn't. And you remember what his goal was, right? Yeah, that's it.
Now how the hell does he get close to Ramon? Roxy, maybe. That slick guy knows everyone who matters, at least on this side of the river. Yeah, Roxy could pull the strings, but that's going to take time. And time's something Paul doesn't have much of left.
He leaned forward, elbows on the railing, scanning the crowd like it might whisper an answer. Some faster way—what could it be? You got any ideas? No? Thought so.
He tapped the ash off his smoke and exhaled slowly. "Yeah, me neither," he muttered under his breath.
Then— "Wait," his voice cut through his own head. He squinted through the smoke, scanning the far corner.
That face. He's seen that face before.
It took him a second—memory flashed back to the streetlight, cold night, blood and concrete. Snake's friend.
"Rico."
Yeah. The same guy who was with that drunk asshole. Paul knocked him out cold without breaking a sweat. But now that he recalled clearly, 'Rico' had been silent that night. He watched everything from the sidelines. He gave a half-hearted apology that was just an excuse. Like he knew how things would play out.
What's he doing here?
Paul leaned forward slightly, eyes narrowing with interest.
"Well, ain't this something..."
There, you see him now? Rico—same lazy lean, same bored look. But this time he's dressed like he belongs here. Not like the kid watching from the sidelines that night. No, tonight he's in his element.
He's got that smooth rhythm, slipping between tables, trading laughs and handshakes like currency. Every move is clean, practiced. A word here, a nod there. The kind of guy who doesn't try to get noticed but somehow always ends up in the center anyway.
Paul watched from the shadows above, elbow resting against the railing. His cigarette burned slowly between his fingers. The music thumped below like a heartbeat—heavy and pulsing, almost alive. Rico's voice blended with it, low and sharp.
Paul didn't move. Just observed. The way Rico talked, the way people leaned in when he spoke—that was respect, not fear. That told him enough.
Then Rico's head turned.
Not a full look, just a shift—a small, deliberate motion, like he already knew where Paul was standing before he even looked.
Their eyes met.
No sound, no words—just a quiet standoff suspended in the haze of lights and music. One standing high, one below. Yet somehow it didn't feel like height mattered.
Paul's gaze was steady and unreadable. Rico's carried the weight of someone who's seen worse and lived through it.
For a second, it was like watching two wolves on opposite cliffs, both trying to measure the other's bite.
Then Paul smiled—faint, almost invisible through the smoke. Not mockery, not greeting. Just a silent I see you.
Rico held the gaze for a beat longer, then turned away, slipping back into the crowd like nothing happened.
But both of them knew—something did.
Paul's hands slipped off the railing—it was time to leave. His steps, slow but steady, echoed faintly against the metal floor. He wasn't the same as when he walked in; something about his presence felt heavier now.
Just as he reached the door, a voice cut through the bass. "Hey, mate."
Paul stopped and looked over his shoulder. A guy in an oversized hoodie leaned against the wall, half in shadow, half bathed in red light. Skinny frame, twitchy fingers—looked slinky but the kind that always had something tucked under the hood.
Paul pointed to himself. Me?
"Yeah, you. Come here for a sec." The guy's tone was low and cautious.
Paul approached, not expecting much—maybe some street hustle, maybe something worse. Either way, it wasn't a big deal to hear one guy out.
"I got a crazy thing here," the man said, grinning quickly. "Wanna look?"
Paul tilted his head, saying nothing.
The guy glanced left, then right—checking if anyone was watching—before his hands disappeared under the hoodie. A faint zip sound. He pulled out a slim box—about six inches long, two wide. Looked like a glasses case, but heavier.
"Fully loaded," the guy said, stepping closer and flipping it open like it was treasure.
Paul's eyes narrowed. An injection. The club lights kept flickering—red, blue, white—so it was hard to tell what was inside. But when a pulse of blue light crossed between them, he caught it for a second: dark blue liquid, thick and slow, with tiny shimmering specks floating like stars in a night sky.
Beautiful, in a twisted way.
The guy grinned. "So? What do you think? Wanna try this out?"
Paul's face stayed calm. "Nah. I'm good."
He started to turn, but the man pressed on, voice quick and desperate. "Wait—wait—hear me out, mate. You'll regret it if you walk away."
Paul sighed, half-smile tugging at his lip. "Alright. Tell me—what's it capable of?"
"Now you're talking." The guy's grin widened. "This one's called Abyss Blue. You shoot it once, and the world slows down, bends, melts. Everything you hate, everything you love—it all turns quiet. Like dreaming with your eyes open."
Paul raised an eyebrow. "And that's supposed to be good?"
The dealer chuckled. "For some people, man, it's the only way they can breathe."
Paul stayed silent for a beat, then nodded once. "How much?"
The guy blinked, surprised. "Oh, you are interested."
"Not really," Paul said, voice even. "But I like collecting pretty things."
The guy's grin stretched. "Five grand."
Paul blinked once, deadpan. "Are you messing with me? Five grand? For a needle?"
The dealer laughed like he'd heard that one too many times. "Nah, man. This ain't some low-tier stuff, alright. It's a trip to another world. The people up there—" he jerked his chin toward the VIP section—"they use it too. Helps 'em see clearly. Helps 'em forget."
Paul smirked faintly. "Yeah, sounds poetic. Still not worth five."
The guy frowned. "You think I'm playing? You can't find this anywhere else. Straight from the docks, no middleman. Pure batch."
Paul folded his arms. "Three."
"Hell no."
"Then keep it," Paul said, turning slightly toward the door.
"Wait—four. Final."
Paul paused, pretending to think, fingers drumming against his pocket. "Three-five."
"Three-eight, I'm bleeding already," the man shot back.
Paul finally turned, looking him dead in the eye. "Three-five. You want to eat tonight or keep talking?"
The guy stared at him for a moment. Then his shoulders slumped, and the grin crept back. "Man, you drive a hard bargain. Fine. Three-five."
Paul took the box carefully, the weight cold in his hand. He counted the cash—smooth, quiet, quick—then slipped it across.
The dealer pocketed the money, nodding. "Pleasure doing business. Don't use it all at once."
Paul gave him a look, unreadable. "Who said I'm using it at all?"
He turned, tucking the case inside his hoodie as the lights flared overhead—blue and gold mixing into something like twilight.
Paul pushed open the door, and the noise fell away.
The next sound wasn't bass or voices but the faint hum of the city—engines, sirens, and wind cutting between concrete. He stood on the balcony of his apartment.
The air was cold and thin, brushing past his face. Down below, the streets stretched in restless motion—cars blinking through puddles, neon signs flickering half-dead. Somewhere, a dog barked. Somewhere else, laughter rose and fell.
Paul leaned on the rusted railing, eyes tracing the skyline like he had done a hundred times before. Same view. Same lights. Different silence.
"Three-five," he muttered under his breath, almost amused. "Better be worth it."
The wind caught his words and carried them away.
But then a reply came back. "You again."