Roxy scanned the dance floor, eyes gleaming under the strobe lights. He tilted his chin toward a girl twirling with a drink still in her hand, almost spilling but somehow never missing a beat.
"See that one? That's chaos bottled up. She'll have you stealing traffic cones by sunrise."
Paul smirked. "Looks more like she'd have me in the ER by midnight."
"Eh, same difference," Roxy chuckled.
He pointed next at a girl leaning against the bar, sipping slow through a straw, not moving with the music, just watching. "And her?
Dangerous quiet. That's the type who knows exactly what she wants and won't waste time getting it."
Paul squinted. "Or she's just waiting for her Uber."
Roxy barked a laugh, clapping the table. "You're killing me, man."
His finger shifted again, this time toward a pair of girls snapping photos of themselves, flashes cutting through the haze. "Them? Insta-queens. Date 'em and suddenly your whole life's a photoshoot. You sneeze wrong, it's on their story."
Paul leaned back, shaking his head with a grin. "Yeah, I'll pass. Don't need my face on a highlight reel."
Roxy's grin widened as his gaze roamed higher. "But hey—if you're really lucky, maybe one of those balcony darlings gives you the time of day. Classy clothes, sharp eyes, the whole 'I'm better than you' package. You crack one of those, you ain't just scoring, you're upgrading."
Paul followed his gaze, then gave him a flat look. "…Or I'm walking into a trap."
Roxy clinked his glass against Paul's, still grinning. "That's the fun part."
Roxy leaned forward, elbow on the table, scanning the crowd like he was reading a menu. "Alright, champ. No more dodging. Pick one. Who's your type?"
Paul raised a brow, sipping his drink slow. "Type? You make it sound like grocery shopping."
"Same thing," Roxy shot back, smirking. "Except this aisle comes with heels and heartbreak."
Paul chuckled under his breath, eyes flicking over the crowd. "If I say none, you'll keep running your mouth anyway."
"Damn right." Roxy tapped the table. "So c'mon. Point. Just one."
Paul let his gaze wander, deliberately slow, like he was humoring a kid. Finally landing on someone.
She wasn't carrying drinks, just moving through the space like the floor bent around her. Sharp stride, chin high, braid swinging low against her back. For a second, the crowd noise dipped under Paul's attention.
"Her," Paul said, nodding toward her. His voice had that drawl, like he'd already decided.
Roxy followed his gaze, lips twitching. "Her? She'll chew you up in two hours flat."
Paul smirked. "Better than wasting two months."
Roxy slapped the table, laughing loud enough to turn heads. "You cold bastard."
Paul leaned back, shrugging. "I call it efficient."
"Efficient, huh?" Roxy's grin sharpened.
Paul shook his head slowly, smirk catching the strobe light. "Tell me you don't see it."
She drew closer, weaving between bodies, the leather strap of her apron hanging loose at her hip. Paul's eyes followed the curve of her back, the rhythm in her step. "That's the kind of woman who doesn't ask twice," he muttered.
Before Paul could add more, she reached their side, the neon caught on her cheekbones, glinting sweat across her collar. She slowed just as she passed Roxy's chair—close enough her perfume cut through the beer-stink. Roxy smirked and, without hesitation, let his hand snap up and give her cheek a light slap.
She froze mid-step, head whipping, tray steady in her hand. The look she shot him could've stripped paint off a wall. "The fuck's your problem?"
Roxy just leaned back, smirk never fading. "Feel's in."
Paul gave a low chuckle, shaking his head, half-amused, half-impressed by Roxy's stupidity. The bartender glared hard enough to cut glass, then snatched up both their empties without asking. She stormed back toward the bar, braid whipping behind her.
Roxy lifted his brows at Paul, like daring him to keep the claim.
Paul only leaned forward, elbows on the table, watching her walk away. "Alright, I take back what I said. I won't gonna last two minutes. 2 hours is a different story."
"What ? Don't back down so quickly."
Paul gave him a flat look. "Nah… She looks like she'd poison my drink the first time I forget her birthday."
Roxy wheezed, throwing his head back. "Goddamn—you really got trust issues."
Paul cracked the faintest smile. "Just realistic."
Roxy grinned wider, leaning closer. "So what is it then? You like crazy? You like quiet? You like 'upgrade package' balcony queens? Tell me."
Paul leaned back. "I like not answering dumb questions."
For a second, Roxy just stared at him—then burst into laughter, shaking his head. "You're impossible, man. Absolutely impossible."
Paul raised his glass, unbothered. "And yet here you are, still trying."
Roxy clinked against it again, still chuckling. "One day, you'll crack. And when you do, I'm writing the damn book."
Paul smirked, letting the music swallow the rest.
The golden water. Fully refilled landed in front them . Both chuckled lightly, covering their mouth with hands.
They both hit another line. Paul getting riled up, and Roxy ? He looked the same as yesterday.
Roxy again, started to line-up the powder for the next round. But for no reason…
Paul's thumb tapped against the empty glass, steady, nervous. His gaze drifted past Roxy's shoulder, scanning the crowd, then the far walls, then the strobing ceiling lights.
"You ever wonder," he said low, like he wasn't even sure he should say it aloud, "…if someone's keeping a close watch on you? Always?"
Roxy's brow twitched up. He lifted his head. "What - like gods?"
"I don't know," Paul muttered, eyes narrowing. "Maybe. Or me. Or you. Or…" His jaw worked, restless. "Doesn't matter who. Just… don't you ever feel it? Like someone's right there, eyes fixed on your back. And then you turn around, and it's just you. No one else. Nothing."
Roxy chuckled lightly, looked down at the table and back to Paul again. "What the fuck you getting at, mate? I don't follow."
Paul leaned forward now, elbows on the table, voice dropping lower. "Don't laugh. I'm serious. This city… it feels wired. Like it's built to watch. Windows like eyes. Corners like ears. Everything's listening, waiting for you to slip." He rubbed the side of his nose. "It's not just the drugs. I've felt it before."
For a moment he went quiet, staring at the dance floor, at strangers swaying under lights. His lip curled faintly. "Like the whole thing's a stage. Everyone moving in their roles. And me? I'm the only one who doesn't know my lines."
Roxy lifted his glass, drinking a mouthful of beer and placed with thud. His narrowed at him slightly. "Haa. I get it. Yeah. I've had that feeling, once or twice. Like the air itself's staring. Creepy shit. But…" He jabbed a finger at Paul. "That's all It is. A feeling."
Paul huffed through his nose, half laugh, half frustration. "Yeah. A feeling." His eyes flicked up again, restless. "But it sticks. Doesn't let go."
Roxy rolled his eyes but smiled, slapping Paul's arm lightly. "You know what? You're just acting paranoid for no reason—and you're getting me in it too. Stop overthinking. Let it wash away, you hear me?"
Paul finally leaned back as well, exhaling long. Then he smirked faintly, like he'd caught himself. "Yeah. Right. Just the devil's powder talking."
Roxy raised his glass in mock salute. "Exactly. And you're giving him too much screen time."
Finally, Roxy completed his craft, neat as ritual. "Last one before I take five."
They bent down together, quick, sharp snorts. Fire straight up the nose, stinging, then blooming wide. Paul sat back with a jerk of his shoulders, eyes watering, heart kicking like a misfired drum. The burn slid into his chest, spread to his fingertips—jittery, electric.
"Yeah," Roxy sniffed, half-grin crooked on his face. "That's the trick. I'll be back. Don't steal my throne."
He slipped off, swallowed by the dark tide of bodies.
Paul lingered, staring at the table a second too long. The wood grain seemed to crawl, lines running faster than his brain could follow. He laughed under his breath, not at anything in particular… more like the air itself felt funny. His drink stared back, low and lonely at the bottom.
I'm all out, aren't I?
The thought cracked across his skull, sticky as gum. He blinked. All out. All out. No, not yet. Not until—
He pushed himself up. Easy job. Just refill.
The floor wasn't the floor anymore… it tilted, slow, rolling under him like a wave. Paul braced his hand against a chair back, then another, moving forward in crooked rhythm. The bass rattled in his ribs, like his bones had turned hollow and the club was drumming on them. Lights smeared across his vision, red dragging into purple, then green, then nothing but blur.
Move you bitch. If you don't—then. Then what??
By the time he reached the counter, he needed both palms flat on the bar, gripping like it might float away. His breath came in short pulls, nose still raw from the burn, a thin film of sweat gathering at his temples.
He slid the empty glass forward, knuckles white from holding it. His grin wavered on his lips, half there, half gone.
"Hit me again," he muttered, voice rougher, like gravel caught in his throat.
The bartender slid the glass back full, foam crawling lazy over the rim. Paul wrapped his fingers around it, lifted it slow, steady—like testing how much control he still had. The beer hit his tongue bitter and cold, and for a second it steadied him.
His eyes drifted back to the floor. The crowd moved like a single breathing thing—sweat, glitter, limbs all tangled, heads thrown back like worshippers at some neon altar.
Paul squinted, lips curling faintly. Look at them. Dancing like actors on the stage. Pretending they own their lives. Bunch of puppets, shaking their asses like it matters. Like anyone's watching.
He took another long pull, the bitterness biting deeper. His gaze caught on one couple pressed close, the man whispering into the woman's ear. She laughed, too loud, too fake. Paul smirked. Yeah. Laugh louder.
Maybe he'll forget you're empty inside.
He leaned harder Into the counter, muttering under his breath, "Pathetic."
The glass clinked down sharper than he meant. He pulled himself upright, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand. The room swayed again, but this time he didn't fight it—just walked with it, letting the sway push him back toward the tables.
Only he didn't make it.
Halfway there, his shoulder clipped into someone—soft but solid. The jolt sloshed his drink over the rim, cold down his fingers.
"Watch it—" a woman's voice cut sharp through the noise.
Paul blinked, turned. Neon painted her face—sharp eyes, hair catching green light, the edge of her lips set firm. She looked at him like she was about to cut him in half.
For a second, his brain lagged behind. Then a crooked grin tugged at his mouth. "My bad.
But he quickly froze. His pocket felt lighter. He caught her wrist mid-motion, her fingers still warm against him.
No reply.
Paul's grip tightened on her wrist, but she only smiled, like he'd just played his part in her script. Between her fingers glinted his black card. His life, his cover, his edge—reduced to a toy in her hand.
She leaned closer, eyes catching the strobe light. "Looking for this?"
"Hand it over," Paul said flatly.
Her lips curled slow. Instead of giving it back, she dragged the card down her chest, a deliberate slide that ended between her breasts. With a teasing press, it disappeared from sight. She tipped her chin at him, playful, daring. "Take it."
Paul stared, heat pooling behind his calm. Fucking with me?
His eyes stayed fixed on her as his hand slipped in, fingers brushing against her skin. Warm. Soft. Almost too soft, like he was pressing into something that could swallow him whole If he let it. The curve of her chest rose against his hand, her body tightening around him as if she wanted him to search deeper. For a second he almost forgot what he came for. The softness, the heat, the way she pressed closer—this was enough to make any man lose himself.
But when his fingers reached the spot he wanted, the treasure wasn't there.
The card was gone.
Her smirk widened. She stepped in until their bodies touched, her perfume thick and sweet, almost intoxicating. "Not there," she whispered, voice like velvet.
He didn't have to search far—she made the move for him. Arms around his shoulders, she pulled him against her like a lover mid-dance. To anyone watching, it was foreplay set to bass. To him, it was temptation laced with mockery.
Her lips ghosted his jawline. "Why don't we quit playing? Hit your place. Mine. Somewhere quiet. I promise I won't steal anything else."
Paul's breath slowed, jaw set, but his hand betrayed him. He slid it lower, under her skirt, fingers grazing lace. She shuddered instantly, clutching him tighter, her body pressing harder into his.
"Yes… there," she moaned, breath hot against his ear. "Mmh—don't stop. Right there… yeah."
Her nails dug lightly into the back of his neck as his fingers pressed further, searching. For a heartbeat, he almost let himself get lost in it—the heat, the softness, the way her voice trembled like a secret meant only for him.
Then—plastic.
Paul's fingers closed around the card, tugging it free from the heat of her body. For a second, he just stared at it in his hand, the black surface catching the light, proof he'd won the game. Then—without warning—he wrapped his arm around her and pulled her into him, more tighter, returning the embrace she'd started.
She tilted her head back slightly, eyes looking at the crowd. A sly grin played on her lips. "So…" she breathed, voice dripping with tease. "We in, or out?"
Paul lowered his head, his mouth close enough that his breath tickled her ear. He exhaled slow, deliberate, and felt her shiver at the warmth of it. Then he whispered, sharp and final:
"Out."
She paused, smirk curling wider, her grip loosening as she pulled back inch by inch. But her eyes never left his. "Then I'll let you off tonight. But if fate really wants us—"
"…next time, I'm in," Paul finished, his voice cutting clean through hers.
Her smile lingered, heat flickering behind it. She let go fully, stepping back into the crowd, giving him one last wink before she disappeared between the lights and music.
Paul slipped the card into his pocket, his smirk faint but certain. This city's got games on every corner.
"Hey..." She tapped his shoulder, when Paul didn't reply quickly.
"Huh.." Paul reacted quickly. His eyes followed the sound, and caught the figure standing besides him.
"Varsha???"