Paul swirled what was left in his glass, the neon streaking across the rim. He shot Roxy a sidelong glance.
"Alright, enough bitching about me. Your turn. How'd you end up here?"
Roxy leaned back in his chair, smirk twitching at the corner of his mouth. "Here, as in this club? Or here, as in this life?"
Paul raised his brows. "Whichever one doesn't make you dodge the question."
Roxy laughed through his nose, scratching at the edge of the packet before setting it down. "Truth is, I didn't 'get here.' I just… never left. Grew up not too far from these streets. Same neon, same noise, just less shine and more blood on the sidewalks."
Paul leaned forward a little, watching him. "So what—you just… slipped into it? This life?"
Roxy shrugged, a careless roll of his shoulders. "Slip, fall, crawl—pick a word. My old man was gone before I could spell his name. Ma worked herself sick. Me? I figured out quick the city doesn't hand you anything. So I took. Ran errands, lifted cash, carried weight. One day you're holding bags, next day you're holding doors, and before you know it—you're part of the furniture."
Paul frowned slightly. "Doesn't sound like much of a choice."
"There's always a choice," Roxy said, his grin sharp but not unfriendly. "Mine was between being broke, invisible, and stepped on… or being broke, loud, and at least stepping back. Guess which one I picked."
Paul gave a short, dry laugh. "Yeah, I think I can tell."
For a second, the noise of the club pressed in—the bass, the shouts, the glass clinks. Then Roxy leaned forward again, smirk softening.
"But hey—don't twist it into some sob story. City chews everyone one way or another. At least I learned to bite back."
"Guess we all find our corners," Paul said quietly.
Roxy grinned. "Corners? Nah, mate. This place ain't got corners. Just circles."
The bass dropped, hard enough to shake the table.
Paul blinked. For half a second, the light behind Roxy's head turned red — the same shade as the jacket in his memory — and then it was gone.
He looked down at the drink again, suddenly unsure if it had ever been full.
Finally Paul pushed his chair back and stood, the legs scraping against the floor.
"Where you going?" Roxy asked, half-dazed, half-grinning.
"Washroom," Paul muttered. His throat felt dry.
The air inside was colder, the bass outside muffled to a dull, rhythmic thud. Fluorescent lights flickered above the cracked mirrors. He turned on the tap, splashed water across his face. The chill bit deep, grounding him for a second.
He stared at himself. The reflection stared back — tired eyes, red veins, a faint tremor in his jaw.
Was he still high, or was this clarity? Hard to tell.
He leaned closer to the mirror. "You look like a bitch, you know that ?" He said quietly, voice half-lost to the hum of the vent.
A few more breaths. Hands on the sink. Water dripping.
He stepped out, letting the heavy door thud shut behind him. The washroom's cold tile smell gave way to thick air — smoke, sweat, perfume, alcohol. Lights slashed through the haze in red and blue stripes.
He didn't go back to Roxy's table. Not yet. His head buzzed, a quiet hum under the music, and something inside him wanted distance — from Roxy, from the noise, from the night itself.
He made for the stairs instead, weaving through the crowd.
From the upper level, the club stretched like a breathing organism — pulsing, sweating, alive. Every face flickered in the strobe light, laughing or shouting or lost. He leaned against the railing, letting his eyes adjust. The height gave him a sense of control. Maybe that's what he needed right now.
His gaze swept the dance floor first.
A girl with a broken heel tried to keep up with her friends, laughing through her frustration.
Two men argued near the bar — one slamming his glass, the other pretending not to care.
A dealer slipped a handoff near the hallway, a folded note exchanged in seconds.
At another corner, a couple whispered too close, all teeth and secrets.
Paul watched them all, reading movements like clues. Everyone was chasing something — a thrill, a fix, a feeling that wouldn't last till morning.
He wondered which one he looked like from down there.
He moved a little along the balcony, letting the music vibrate through the metal rail. That's when his focus snagged — a different rhythm, a quieter island amid the chaos.
A small group sat at a table tucked near the back wall, half-shadowed by a hanging light. Four men, dressed too neat for the room. No dancing, no drinking, no wasted motion. Just stillness — the kind that made people noticeable.
Paul slowed his steps, pretending to check his phone while he listened.
On the table lay three things: a gun, a stack of cash, and a phone.
"There's a lot in this world," the man at the head said, his voice cutting clean through the noise. "But to survive — to really live — you only need one."
He tapped the money first. "Cash. Best damn option. Buy whatever you want — loyalty, love, silence. Everything's for sale."
His hand moved to the phone. "Knowledge. Even without cash, if you know enough — how to move, who to call — you can live like a king."
Finally, he picked up the gun. Turned it once, slowly. "And this. The simplest. Power in a finger. No deals. No waiting. Just bang."
Paul's eyes narrowed.
The man smirked. "But above all these, there's one thing stronger. The desire for control."
He placed the gun down gently. "Every choice we make is about it. Money, knowledge, violence — they're just tools to keep the illusion alive. But take one wrong step—" He paused, looking straight ahead. "—and you walk into the abyss."
The table laughed nervously. The sound rolled under the music.
Paul stayed still. Watching. Listening. The lights flashed again — red, blue, white — cutting his face into shifting fragments.
He felt it crawl somewhere deep under his ribs — the faint burn of recognition. Like those words were aimed at him.
Desire for control.
He exhaled slowly, stepped back from the railing, and turned toward the exit.
The music swallowed him whole again, all rhythm and heat and oblivion.
He didn't look back.
Not once.
The thought of the family still lingered.
The wife's trembling voice. The son's uneven breathing. The way the air turned still when he said Hector's name. Simon replayed it all, piece by piece — every twitch, every half-second delay before they spoke.
Something was wrong. He could feel it — not in what they said, but what they refused to say.
His fingers moved before he realised it. The notepad slid aside, and his phone came alive in his hand. He opened the local database, searching almost out of habit. The screen's glow cut through the dark interior of the car.
One headline blinked back at him.
"Late-night car collision near Drayden Streets. Two deaths. A passenger and a driver."
Three days ago. Same date.
Simon's thumb hovered above the screen. He hesitated — a strange weight in his chest, as though the night itself leaned closer to see what he'd do next.
He tapped the headline.
The screen flickered once, loading.
And the faint glow lit his face just enough to catch the smallest shift in his expression — recognition, or maybe disbelief.
Then the car's interior went still again.
Only the quiet hum of the city outside, and the steady reflection of the open file on his eyes.