Chapter Four.
The moment Klein stepped into the club, he knew something was wrong.
It wasn't the flashing lights—though they flickered more like warning signals than party ambiance. It wasn't the music either—loud, throbbing, yet oddly arrhythmic, like someone had taken a perfectly good beat and then mangled it on purpose.
No. What unsettled him most was the air. Thick. Heavy. As if the very atmosphere had been soaked in secrets too long. Each breath seemed to coat his lungs in varnish.
He adjusted the strap of his shoulder bag, though it barely held more than his wallet, phone, and ID—the bare minimum for survival in a world that clearly wanted him dead or humiliated, whichever came first.
Roselle, of course, looked as though he had just walked onto the stage of his own opera. His long chestnut hair gleamed under the lights, his little mustaches caught the neon glow like punctuation marks in a love letter written to himself, and his grin spread wide enough to shame the Cheshire Cat.
"Ahhh, Klein," he boomed over the music, "can you feel it? The hum of possibility? The electric taste of fate in the air?"
"Yes," Klein deadpanned. "I can feel the possibility of lung cancer, the taste of cheap vodka, and the hum of regret."
Roselle only laughed, waving him toward the bar. "That's the spirit! Let the shadows whisper, my boy. Tonight, we drink to new beginnings."
Klein followed, reluctantly, eyes wandering across the club. The longer he watched, the stranger it all seemed.
The dancers weren't just… dancing. Their movements, though cloaked in drunken energy, followed patterns. Subtle, repeating, almost geometric. People swayed left at the same beat, raised their hands at the same measure, as though they were all tracing invisible lines in the air.
His stomach tightened. He wasn't sure if he was imagining it, or if there really was a structure hiding inside the chaos.
"Don't stare too long," Roselle murmured suddenly, breaking through his thoughts. His tone was low, uncharacteristically sharp, and his eyes didn't leave his glass. "This isn't the sort of place that forgives curiosity."
Klein blinked at him. "…You brought me here."
"Yes." Roselle tipped his drink, mustaches twitching in amusement. "And what better way to celebrate your newfound freedom than throwing you straight into danger? Builds character."
Klein resisted the urge to bash his head against the bar.
Just as he reached for the sad, watered-down cocktail placed in front of him, something pulled at the edge of his attention. A presence. Cold. A shadow against neon.
He turned—and there he was.
The silver-haired stranger.
Standing apart from the chaos, untouched by the pulsing crowd, his eyes closed as if in prayer—calm, centered, and utterly alien to the writhing frenzy around him.
It was wrong.
No one in this place should have looked like that.
Every sway of the dancers seemed to bend around him, like even the madness itself refused to brush too close. A space of silence, carved in the middle of noise.
Klein felt the hair at the back of his neck rise. The man didn't move, didn't glance, didn't so much as twitch, and yet… Klein had the uncanny sensation of being observed. Weighed. Filed neatly into some unseen ledger.
His throat went dry.
And Klein did what he did best—he feigned ignorance.
He turned back to his drink, stirred the melting ice with a straw, and tried very hard to look like a man whose only concern in life was whether or not he could afford a second round.
He looked straight at the bar counter, focusing on the rows of bottles glowing like colored glass organs in a cathedral of vice. Reds, greens, ambers—liquid jewels promising either relief or ruin. Anything was better than turning around and accidentally meeting those closed eyes again.
The music pounded on, bass rattling his ribs, yet it felt distant, muffled, as though someone had stuffed cotton in his ears. He stirred his cocktail again, ice clinking weakly, and told himself that he was here to "loosen up." A tiny celebration. A symbolic drink to toast freedom.
After all, Roselle wasn't wrong.
For once.
But freedom came with the flavor of watered-down lime and the faint, metallic aftertaste of dread.
"You're thinking too loudly," Roselle remarked suddenly, as if he'd plucked the thought straight out of Klein's skull. He leaned closer, mustaches twitching like conspiratorial quotation marks. "Drink faster, my boy. If you don't drown your worries, someone else will notice them for you."
Klein shot him a flat look. "What are you, my life coach?"
Roselle beamed. "Better. I'm your accomplice."
He ignored Roselle—it was the better option. Arguing with him was like wrestling smoke: pointless, and you'd still end up coughing.
Instead, Klein let his eyes wander. For all its strange air, the bar carried a veneer of elegance, high-end in a way that almost distracted from the wrongness humming beneath the surface.
The ceiling drew his attention most. Stained glass—like a cathedral's, refracting light into fractured hues. The designs weren't holy, though. No saints, no angels. Just abstract shapes that seemed to shift the longer he stared, patterns folding in on themselves like mirrors reflecting mirrors.
It blended strangely well with the place, beautiful in a way that made his stomach knot.
Because beauty, Klein knew, was often the best disguise for danger.
Like money.
When his gaze drifted back down, Klein realized Roselle was no longer beside him. The man had migrated to the dancefloor, already wrapped around a woman of uncertain origin—smiling, laughing, playing the part of a man born to be adored.
Klein's mouth twitched into something between a grimace and a sigh. Of course. He knew Roselle's nature all too well. His "concern" for Klein's tragedy had never been more than a flimsy excuse—what he really wanted was a night of indulgence and someone sober enough to drive him home afterward.
The thought made Klein's fingers curl around his glass. For one sharp, fleeting moment, he entertained the violent urge to punch Roselle's annoyingly handsome face. But, being a law-abiding citizen—and one with a healthy fear of legal fees—he restrained himself.
Draining the last of his watered-down cocktail, Klein set the empty glass back on the counter and raised his eyes, scanning for the bartender.
Draining the last of his watered-down cocktail, Klein set the empty glass back on the counter and raised his eyes, scanning for the bartender.
He spotted him. A thin blond youth with delicate, almost aristocratic features—refined, reserved, as if he belonged to a library more than a nightclub. His gold-rimmed glasses caught the fractured light above, white gloves immaculate against the bottles he handled. The only discordant note was his receding hairline, a tragic betrayal of genetics that made him look older and younger at once.
Klein's gaze lingered on the nametag pinned neatly to his vest:
Lockhart Siakam.
Something about the name scratched at the back of his mind, though he couldn't place why.
Then he felt it—that prickling awareness of being noticed.
The bartender's head lifted, gold-rimmed glasses catching the stained-glass glow, and Lockhart looked directly at him.
Lockhart approached with the quiet confidence of someone who didn't need to compete with the noise around him. His footsteps were soft, yet Klein felt each one—measured, deliberate—until the man stood directly across the bar, gaze level, posture immaculate.
"Is there anything you want, sir?" Lockhart's voice was smooth, cultured, the kind that could make a grocery list sound like poetry.
Klein hesitated, suddenly aware of how little he knew about drinks beyond "cheap beer" and "whatever Roselle wasn't hoarding." He cleared his throat, playing casual. "Uh… your best-seller mix. Whatever that is."
Lockhart's brows arched slightly, the faintest flicker of recognition passing through his features. Then, as though masking a secret smile, he inclined his head. "Of course, sir."
He turned, gloved hands moving with precision, selecting bottles without hesitation. Liquids of jewel-like colors poured and layered, a rhythm to it that felt less like bartending and more like ritual.
The glass clinked softly as he stirred, a thin curl of something almost luminous trailing up from the drink's surface before vanishing into the smoke-heavy air.
Klein watched, wary. "That doesn't look like vodka and tonic."
Lockhart slid the glass toward him, the faintest curve at the corner of his lips. "It isn't, sir. It's what you asked for—the house's most popular request. Our… best-seller."
The drink shimmered faintly under the fractured stained-glass light, glowing a shade of deep violet that seemed just a little too alive.
Klein raised a brow, suspicion gnawing at him. But Roselle's words echoed in his head—such a weak drinker!—and, well, pride was a hell of a motivator.
"Fine," he muttered. "Here's to bad decisions."
He took a cautious sip.
Klein took another sip, slower this time. Whatever the hell it was, the drink was… good. Surprisingly so. Sweet, but not cloying, with a smoky undertone that grounded it. The kind of taste that made you take another mouthful before you realized you were halfway through the glass. Suspicious or not, it beat watered-down cocktails by a mile.
Lockhart, polishing an already spotless glass with immaculate precision, gave him a sidelong glance. "So, sir. First time here?"
"Is it that obvious?" Klein asked, swirling the violet liquid.
The faintest curve touched Lockhart's mouth. "Most people don't ask for the best-seller unless they've been told to. Or unless they're trying to be impressive."
Klein snorted. "Well, I'm neither. I just didn't want to read through a list longer than a medical textbook."
That earned a soft chuckle. "Fair enough, sir. Though if my employer's brother had his way, the list would be twice as long."
Klein raised an eyebrow. "Your boss's brother?"
Lockhart sighed—a restrained, elegant sort of exhale, as if even his frustrations wore gloves. "Yes. The man has… eccentric tastes. Rare vintages, elaborate recipes, obscure rituals disguised as cocktails. And, naturally, every new idea somehow falls to me. Last week, he demanded a drink that required seven different syrups—one of which doesn't even exist on the market."
"Sounds like someone who collects problems just to watch other people solve them," Klein muttered.
"You've met him, then," Lockhart replied dryly, polishing another glass.
Klein allowed himself a small laugh. The warmth from the drink was starting to spread, subtle and insidious, threading through his limbs like a quiet hum. Not enough to alarm, but enough to make the edges of his thoughts soften. He leaned against the counter, feeling—dare he say it—almost comfortable.
"Workplace woes aside," Lockhart went on, "you don't look like the usual clientele, sir. Forgive my bluntness."
"Bluntness forgiven," Klein said with a half-smile. "You're right. I don't exactly belong here. Let's just say… life's been busy trying to kill me lately, and I figured I should at least have one decent drink before it succeeds."
Lockhart paused, setting the glass down with deliberate care. His gaze sharpened, though his voice stayed even. "That's a bleak way to toast your evening, sir."
"It's an honest one," Klein countered. "Honesty's cheap. Costs less than this drink, anyway." He lifted his glass in mock salute and swallowed another mouthful.
For a moment, there was quiet between them—just the music pounding in the background, the fractured light glinting across bottles, and the faint warmth of the violet drink coiling tighter inside Klein's chest.
Then Lockhart inclined his head slightly, almost formal. "Well. If it's survival you're after, sir… I hope, at least, my mix makes your fight a little easier."
Klein smirked faintly. "It's helping. Which is more than I can say for most people I know."
Lockhart's polite smile deepened by a fraction, though his gold-rimmed glasses hid the exact glint in his eyes. "I'll take that as a compliment, sir."
The drink shimmered faintly in the fractured light, and Klein took another sip.
It really was… good. Suspiciously so. Smooth, balanced, with a warmth that didn't just settle in his chest but curled lower, winding through him in ways he couldn't quite name. Each swallow seemed to sharpen the world's edges, the chatter and neon and stained glass suddenly clearer, brighter—yet oddly distant, like he was watching through water.
He blamed the alcohol, naturally. That was the reasonable explanation.
But when his fingertips brushed the cool glass, lingering a heartbeat too long, Klein couldn't shake the faint impression that the drink wasn't just loosening his thoughts. It was coaxing something awake.