Paul stepped out of the kitchen, drying his hands with a white towel. The quiet apartment swallowed the faint sound of fabric against skin. Sunlight spilled from the balcony, catching the edge of the sofa as he sank into it, the towel slipping from his fingers onto the small table in front.
For a moment, he didn't move. The silence felt heavy, almost too perfect. Like the world had forgotten to breathe.
He took out his phone. The screen glowed pale blue. 9:07.
Classes had already started by now, he thought. Shouldn't he be there too? His eyes drifted toward the window where the curtains fluttered in the soft wind. Light cut through the folds, painting the floor in slow-moving gold.
He looked down at the bandage wrapped around his hand. The pain wasn't as sharp anymore. Just a dull, constant reminder. His head tilted back, resting against the couch, gaze tracing the ceiling cracks that crossed like fading scars.
Then his phone vibrated.
A soft buzz, once, then again. His fingers twitched before picking it up.
Unknown number, but familiar rhythm.
He answered. "You needed something?"
"Me. Why?"
"Alright. Wait a minute."
He hung up and stared at the screen for a second longer before slipping the phone into his pocket. "Guess it's time to get moving."
He crossed the room, opening his wardrobe. The hinges groaned softly. He pulled out a loose white t-shirt and slipped it on. The black jeans he already wore matched fine. From his pocket, he emptied everything except the phone. No wallet, no keys.
He shut the wardrobe, crossed the living room, and reached the door. Sitting by the frame, he tugged on his socks and laced the white shoes tight. Dust brushed away with a quick swipe of his palm.
The door clicked open. He stepped out. Closed it behind him, didn't lock it. He wasn't planning to be gone long.
At the metal gate, the sunlight seemed sharper. He pushed it open, its hinges crying faintly, and saw Roxy waiting on the other side.
"This early?" Paul asked, one brow rising. "Better be something important."
Roxy didn't reply right away. His eyes scanned Paul's body from head to toe, unsure. The guy standing in front of him didn't match the one he'd seen that night. He was too casual and calm. As if another had happened.
Paul frowned. "What?" His voice came out flat.
Then Roxy's eyes shifted. Something flickered behind him. Shadows.
Paul turned his head sharply, but the world went black.
A thick cloth covered his face, cutting the air from his lungs. He struggled, twisting, but a cold weight pressed hard against the back of his head.
"Be a good boy and follow us, will you?" a low voice murmured near his ear.
Paul froze. His breath slowed. Hands grabbed him, quick and practiced. Searching his pockets, brushing against his arms, his ribs.
"Only a phone," one of them muttered.
A short nod followed. Then plastic wrapped around his wrists, pulling tight, biting into his skin.
A shove came from behind. "Move."
Paul stumbled forward, the ground uneven beneath his steps, the world still dark. The only thing he could hear now was his own pulse, heavy and slow, like footsteps in an empty stage.
After three or four steps, the grip on Paul's shoulder tightened, halting him. Then came the sound of a sliding door opening somewhere ahead. A dull scrape of metal and rubber. The grip loosened just enough for him to move.
A hand guided him forward. His foot rose slightly, meeting a step. The surface was soft this time, not ground. Leather or fabric. A vehicle seat. So, not the street.
The hand pressed his shoulder again.
"Sit."
Paul followed the order without a word, lowering himself onto the seat. The cushion dipped slightly under his weight. Someone beside him adjusted, the faint rustle of clothes brushing his ear.
The door slid shut again with a solid thud. The air grew still for a second, thick with the scent of fuel, dust, and something faintly sweet. Air freshener, maybe. Then came the soft click of a latch.
The hum of an engine stirred to life. The van began to move. Paul felt the vibration through the seat, the sway of the suspension under him.
He stayed quiet, breathing evenly, trying to catch the rhythm of the turns. One left. Then a long stretch forward. He couldn't see, couldn't move, but his mind was already mapping the distance. Counting seconds. Counting the silence between them.
One, two, three, four, five.
Six people in total. Including him.
Paul sat still, every muscle tuned to the faintest sound. The air was thick with the smell of sweat, gasoline, and faint cigarette ash. Through the dark fabric over his head, he tried to make out the world beyond shapes, colors, movement, but there was nothing. Only breath. The quiet rhythm of lungs beside him. Someone's exhale brushed against his arm. Another shifted in the seat across. Wind seeped in through a half-opened window, cool and irregular, touching his skin before vanishing again.
"You sure this is our guy?" A voice asked suddenly, somewhere to his left. Gruff, coarse.
"Yeah," came the reply from the front seat. It was Roxy. Calm, but his tone carried something nervous underneath.
"Can't believe this kid took out that bald head," the first man said with a smirk in his voice. "How'd you do it, kid?"
Paul said nothing. His head stayed low, his breathing quiet.
The man turned to Roxy. "How'd he do it?"
Roxy hesitated, glancing at Paul's covered face before answering quietly, "With his hands."
"With bare hands?"
Roxy nodded, eyes distant. "He had a knife, but… it didn't help much." His lips went dry at the memory. That night... the way he moved. It wasn't normal.
"Is that right?" the man asked, leaning closer to Paul.
Still, no answer.
The man chuckled, short and ugly. "You know I can end your little act right here, huh? One pull, and you're done playing ghost."
He pressed the gun barrel against Paul's head. Cold metal against skin.
Paul didn't flinch. He only turned his head slightly toward the man, voice quiet, steady, without fear.
"You can't."
The word hung there.
"Can't?" The man's smirk faltered. He waited for another word, an explanation, maybe a plea. But Paul said nothing more. Just turned his head forward again, sinking back into silence.
Roxy stared at him.
Did he know this would happen?
Paul's mind was far elsewhere.
"This was the fastest way" hethought. "No more waiting, no more searching. They wanted me here, so I came."
His mind began to replay the last few weeks.
From the dead alley to house. Then what was it? Yeah Night light. Bunch of thugs. Slowly and steadily he reached the edge of the stage. Where the man who's running the show was hidden.
Now, inside this van, surrounded by his men, Paul realized he was closer than ever.
And this time, he wouldn't need a knife.
The van's door opened with a rough pull, sunlight cutting into the dim space like a blade.
A man stepped out first, boots hitting the ground. Then came Paul, his steps steady, unhurried.
"We'll take it from here," one of the men said.
Paul felt the heat against his face as they pushed him forward. The air outside smelled faintly of oil and dust, the kind that sticks to your throat. Somewhere close, a truck engine rumbled, and voices echoed in fragments before fading again.
A wooden door creaked ahead. Someone tugged him toward it.
Paul moved without resistance, the fabric around his head brushing his cheek with each breath. The sound of hinges groaned as the door opened wider, followed by the cool shift of air that came from inside.
"Keep walking."
He stepped forward, shoes tapping faintly on concrete. A moment later, he felt the slight dip. Stairs. The air grew colder with each step they took downward, and the faint echo of their movements bounced against the walls.
Dripping water. Old cement. Faint perfume of alcohol and dust.
Paul knew this place.
The turns. The texture of the ground. Even the hum in the walls. He'd walked this way before, countless times. The descent to the night club.
Same path. Different purpose.
The man behind him rested a heavy hand on his shoulder. At first, the grip had been firm, ready. Now it was casual, a little lazy, as if the tension was fading. Like he already decided Paul wasn't a threat.
But something inside him still whispered caution.
The man's eyes darted toward Roxy walking behind them. "You thought you were smart, huh? How the hell didn't you catch on to this sooner? Didn't think to tell us anything?"
Roxy's voice wavered, the edge of panic slipping through. "I—I did think about it, alright? I knew he wasn't some random kid looking for a hit. That's why I kept him close. I just didn't know he'd pull some wild shit like that. I warned him not to mess with it."
The man gave a short, humorless laugh. "So you were feeding him our business while thinking you were watching him? Real genius move."
"I wasn't feeding him anything! It's just... he asked questions, yeah, but everyone does. I didn't tell him anything he couldn't find out himself. You think he wouldn't have figured out the basics after a few nights here? Everyone in this fucking city knows how this place runs. He just got there a little faster, that's all."
The grip on Paul's shoulder tightened.
The man's tone dropped lower, darker. "You think that's all it is?"
He yanked Paul back a little. Their steps stopped. Dust stirred in the stale air.
"The moment you brought him here was when this started. The first contact. You handed him the map and let him walk straight in. If he came on his own, maybe he'd just be another rat looking for a drink. But you? You work here. You vouched for him. You made him ours. And now—"
The man's hand turned Paul slightly, forcing him halfway around. "—now he's here, and you can't even tell me what he really is."
Roxy's throat tightened. "I didn't know! How the hell could I? You think I'm psychic? He just... he didn't act like a cop or anything, alright? Quiet and casual, yeah, but not like them."
The man's stare hardened.
Paul finally spoke, voice calm.
"It's not his fault."
The man froze for a second.
Then he pulled Paul closer, breath brushing the side of his face. "Say whatever you want. Roxy might walk away from this after a few lessons, but you?" His voice dropped to a low growl. "You won't see tomorrow's light."
Paul turned his head slightly toward him, his face still hidden beneath the dark cloth. His voice came quiet, almost flat.
"Wanna bet?"
The stage fell silent.