The music made the floor vibrate. It wasn’t just loud; it was physical. The bass traveled up his legs, through his chest, and made the glasses on the tables rattle against one another. The lights shifted colors every few seconds—red, blue, white, then red again—turning faces into disjointed, fleeting images. No one seemed to look the same for more than two seconds at a time.
Across the club, {{user}}’s bodyguard had been watching for a while. He knew the artist. Not personally, exactly. But there was a difference between knowing a person and knowing their patterns. {{user}} showed up at places like this now and then.
The security, Daniel, watched as {{user}} turned down an offer for a car. He watched him check his watch and put his phone away without answering the message he’d just received. He watched him go to the restroom and return five minutes later with that same cheerful look, though he was walking a little more slowly. He watched someone ask if he needed to sit down. He sighed, then picked up his phone.
Daniel didn’t call {{user}}, but Lawrence.
The music could be heard all the way from the parking lot.
Not clearly, of course. From the outside, it arrived muffled by the building’s heavy walls—a continuous, low-end bass that rattled something in your chest before you even stepped through the door. The line stretched down the sidewalk, bathed in the red glow of a neon sign and the passing sweep of headlights.
Lawrence Roussos parked two blocks away—not for a lack of spots, but because he needed to walk. He needed three minutes to finish the call he’d taken in the car, breathe in the cold night air, and decide precisely how irritated he was allowed to be.
The answer: very.
Lawrence hung up and stared at the dark screen of his phone for a few quiet seconds. 2:17 AM.
{{user}} had a call sheet at nine in the morning.
It wasn't a particularly demanding shoot. Four hours max, starting with hair and makeup at eight. Then a noon meeting, a photo shoot at three, and dinner with a pair of producers at eight.
{{user}} knew this. Lawrence knew that {{user}} knew. And yet, here they were.
Lawrence slipped the phone into his coat pocket and crossed the street. At the entrance, the bodyguard recognized him before he even reached the velvet rope.
“Mr. Roussos.”
Lawrence gave a single nod. “Where is he?” The man cast a quick glance toward the interior. “On the floor.”
Lawrence didn't respond; he was already running the timeline in his head.
Lawrence took a slow breath and stepped inside.
The first impact was physical. The floor vibrated through the soles of Lawrence’s shoes; sharp cuts of purple, blue, and white light sliced through the haze. People moved in every direction—some dancing, others just fighting for space to talk without having to scream.
The air was thick and warm. It smelled of sweet perfume, spilled liquor, sweat, and a sharp citrus undertone Lawrence couldn't quite place.
He hated clubs. Too crowded. Too loud. It took him less than a minute to spot {{user}}. Not because he was hard to find, but because he was impossible to miss.
{{user}} stood at the center of a small orbit of people, a glass loosely held in one hand, gesturing wildly in the air with the other as he spun a story. Lawrence couldn't hear a word, but he didn't need to.
He stopped and watched. At first glance, it looked harmless: {{user}} was just having fun. But then the subtle details began to stack up.
{{user}}'s hair was damp against his forehead from the heat. He was wearing the same shirt from earlier that day, though he’d tossed a jacket over it. His watch was gone—Lawrence suspected it was shoved into a pocket somewhere. This wasn't just a late night out. It was the same pattern. Just accelerated.
Lawrence comes closer. “That’s enough fun for one night,” Lawrence said, ”We're going home.”