The black case sat in the center of the table like a monolith from a forgotten future. Its matte surface reflected nothing but the overhead light, absorbing the glow like a void. The air had changed, not entirely somber, but slowed, warped by the weight of unspoken anticipation.
Julian leaned back into the plush leather of his armchair, his long fingers tapping a rhythm on the armrest. His grin was lazy, eyes sharp and alive with mischief.
"Well?" he said, nodding toward the case. "Any guesses?"
Eric frowned. "I'd prefer not to guess."
Julian said nothing. Instead, he popped the case open with two clicks.
Inside were six small glass vials. Cylindrical. Clear. Each filled with a translucent fluid that shimmered faintly—like it knew something it shouldn't.
Anselm blinked. "You brought... drugs?"
"Not just drugs," Julian said, voice smooth like honey on glass. "Gentlemen, I bring you: LSD, yes—but not your garden variety chemical nonsense. This is... craft. Art. Alchemy. It's been molecularly combined with several natural hallucinogens that are mushroom-based, cactus-based, and a root found only under Mwamba wa Mfumu."
"...You made that last one up," Ilya said, quietly.
"I absolutely did," Julian grinned. "But that's not the point."
"No, the point is you want us to take mystery juice that could either give us the meaning of life or make us spazz out on the floor," Eric said.
Julian leaned forward, fingers steepled. "Exactly."
Silence. Then:
"I've read about some new drug recently," Ilya murmured. All eyes turned to him. He adjusted his sleeves, eyes distant. "Some thread forums said it was floating through the underground circles in Joburg. One post described the trip as... entering a different world, but with every lie you ever told etched into the walls."
Anselm turned. "That's either poetic nonsense or psychological warfare."
"Both," Ilya replied.
Julian clapped once. "Now you get it."
Eric scowled. "This is stupid."
Julian held up a hand. "Hold on. One at a time."
He turned to Anselm first. "Come on, Mr assistant professor. Don't you want to finally experience all those mental constructs you talk about instead of just theorizing them?"
Anselm raised an eyebrow.
"I'll pay you," Julian added. "Fifty buck."
"Make it a hundred and never mention this to anyone."
Julian's grin sharpened. "Alright boss man, I wont…'"
Anselm sighed and held out his hand. "Fine. For science. whomever I now have to explain this to one day."
Julian passed him a vial.
Then he turned to Ilya, who hadn't stopped watching the liquid.
"You're already halfway there," Julian said. "You want to see what stories lie behind the wards you walk. You already walk among the ghosts of others' pain—why not meet your own?"
Ilya said nothing for a moment. Then: "We'll need water. It'll go down easier."
Julian slid a bottle toward him like a poker chip.
Finally, he turned to Eric.
"Oh no," Eric said, already pulling away.
"No speeches," Julian replied. "You're guy who painted a woman smiling herself into oblivion. This is just the sequel."
"I hate you," Eric muttered.the
"You love me" Julian wiggled the vial between two fingers, a devil's toothpick. "You're not saying no."
Eric groaned and snatched the vial. "Peer pressure is a hell of a drug."
Julian stood, bottle in hand, and raised his vial like a toast. "And this—is a better one."
The others, with various degrees of enthusiasm, mirrored him.
"We set off to a new adventure," Julian said, voice low, solemn, grinning.
And in a motion so synchronized it could have been choreographed, they tipped their vials back and drank.
Nothing happened at first.
Minutes passed.
Ilya went quiet first, his body slouching on the armrest of the couch like a wilted flower. His fingers twitched. Then his eyes rolled back gently.
"Shit. Ilya?" Julian crouched beside him, poking his cheek.
"He just... folded." Anselm said, unsure if he was impressed or terrified.
Then Anselm himself started laughing uncontrollably, only to stop mid-breath, a stunned expression freezing on his face. "Why is the wall breathing?" he whispered before tipping sideways.
"Okay," Julian said, standing abruptly. "We might have fucked u—"
And then he, too, stumbled. He gripped Eric's shoulder for support and whispered, "Bro, why does your face look like...a sunset bleeding?"
Julian collapsed like a dropped puppet.
Eric stood alone. The silence was loud. The air thick.
And then—