Canary Wharf, London. Wednesday, 9:03 AM.
Julian arrived at the office with the same precision as ever, timed like a script written by an algorithm. Never early. Never late.
He knew the Tier 3 floor by sound. The keystroke patterns at every desk, the rhythm of each colleague's facial expressions. He could close his eyes and tell, by the tempo of the room, who was running behind that day.
But familiarity didn't mean comfort.
It meant fatigue.
That kind of "predictable chaos" it felt like an electronic track stuck five minutes in, looping without modulation.
By the time he sat down, he already knew: today would be another copy-pasted composition.
Greg appeared, as usual, coffee in hand, pretending the conversation was casual.
"Got something for you," Greg said. "Saudi money. Family office. Early stage."
He paused, then added:
"You'll lead. Emma and Tomasz will follow your call."
His voice had the practiced rhythm of a stage intro: steady, painless, forgettable.
Julian nodded, took the coffee, offered a polite "Got it," but had already stopped listening.
He could recite Greg's pacing by heart: line six would include a "Your call," line ten would wrap with "Let me know if you need air cover."
It was a drum machine in human form.
Emma was still as fast as a metronome.
Tomasz, not so much, his rhythm was off. Probably another late night prepping slides.
Julian could hear it in his typing.
He could read everyone's state not through eye contact, but through tempo.
The guy whose mouse clicked a bit too fast.
The girl who lagged half a second switching tabs.
The voice that dropped from 180 words per minute to 150.
That's how he survived here.
Not by reading markets.
But by predicting exactly when people would break.
Rick didn't bother with a full jab today. Just dropped a casual line in the break room as Julian walked past.
"Your team's getting pretty intense, huh? Emma's starting to sound a lot like you."
Julian didn't bite.
He just filed it away.
That wasn't a compliment. It was a temperature check.
Rick was testing for drift, sniffing for ego.
Everyone spoke in beats.
The real message was never in the words only in the rhythm.
Back at his desk, he opened the trading dashboard.
Charts moved.
No sound.
He had long since muted the platform's alerts. The dings, the pops, the fake adrenaline, they were made for rookies.
He didn't need reminders.
His ears had their own internal alarm system.
He began prepping the deck for tomorrow's briefing.
Fingers flying, mouse smooth, like he was playing a song with no melody just structure.
But even the most precise player has off-beats.
And he was drifting.
He thought, suddenly, of a room from his childhood.
His mother's practice sessions were timed to the minute.
A wooden metronome sat on the table, the brass arm swinging side to side.
Tick. Tick. Tick. Tick.
Sharper than the music itself.
Julian used to sit on a chair nearby, legs dangling.
Sometimes she'd glance over and say,
"Count with me. Quietly."
He'd follow along, tapping the armrest, whispering the beats.
If he fell out of time, she'd look up just once.
That look was always enough.
He learned early: music isn't melody. It's discipline.
The beat is the one thing you can't afford to miss.
Now he typed like he once counted.
Same mechanics.
Same ear for timing.
The metronome was gone, replaced by Greg's tone, Rick's insinuations, Emma and Tomasz's breathing patterns.
each of them quietly pulsing in his head.
Julian looked up at the screen.
Charts blinking. Patterns scrolling.
The beat was still there—
but the melody had never started.
6:53 PM.
Julian stood in front of the bathroom mirror, tying his tie for the second time.
Too loose the first. Too tight the second.
He stared at his reflection. The knot was perfect.
But he looked like a guest on a late-night talk show.
At 5:30, Greg had sent a message.
Tone casual. Content not.
"Drinks at 7. Top floor. Bring the rhythm."
Not an invitation.
Not a suggestion.
A command disguised as charm.
Julian replied "Sure."
Regretted it instantly.
Typed too fast.
The rooftop was every Canary Wharf party you've ever seen:
glass railings, curated string lights, Prosecco, corporate EDM,
two clients posing for invisible cameras,
seven associates pretending they weren't performing.
The music sounded like it had been ripped from an internal bank training video, low-end too distant, highs too sterilized,
as if volume control was tied to net worth.
Julian stepped in and started listening.
Not to the music, to the way people spoke.
Greg stood in the center, surrounded by two French bond guys and a VP candidate from Hong Kong.
He was mid-story about "post-crisis structural opportunity windows."
He spotted Julian, waved him over.
"Perfect timing—we were just talking about how our team handles rhythm shifts."
Julian smiled, nodded, took a glass of wine.
White. Overchilled.
Not meant to be drunk—meant to be held.
"Julian's our rhythm guy," Greg added. "He doesn't hesitate. He hits the beat."
For a moment, Julian didn't feel like a person.
He felt like a corporate metronome on display.
Ten minutes later, he stood at the edge of the terrace, smoking.
The music had changed worse now.
Some hollow EDM remix, all drag and false buildup,
like a PowerPoint transition trying too hard to look expensive.
Voices behind him:
"I've been doing intermittent fasting, totally changed my energy."
"Our new team lead? Obsessed with meetings."
"Is that the Speedmaster? My IWC's still in the shop."
Julian didn't turn around.
He didn't need to.
The voice was fast, pitch too high, content too light.
One of the new team leads, fresh out of probation, trying to sell himself through sound.
Julian took a second drag.
His phone buzzed.
A broadcast message lit up from a nameless channel:
TONIGHT | WAREHOUSE 16 | REAL BPM ONLY | 01:00 to
No guest list
No suits
E16 – Dockside
He stared at the text for five full seconds.
The rooftop music around him felt like an auto-reply:
Always talking.
Never saying anything real.
He didn't hesitate.
9:00 PM.
He left the terrace.
Walked straight through the crowd.
No goodbyes. No "see you tomorrow."
Greg noticed.
Didn't stop him.
That, too, was part of the system:
You're allowed to disappear as long as you return to the rhythm.
Back home.
Julian peeled off the suit, ripped off the tie, stepped into a cold shower.
Put on a black long-sleeve, military-cut. Matte finish. No logos.
Black trousers, tight around the ankles. Combat boots, silent.
Slipped on the Omega.
He stood in front of the mirror.
Didn't speak.
12:24 AM.
He took a cab east, warehouse district.
Outside the window, the city lights began to scatter, dim, grainy, broken apart.
The beat was starting to collapse.
The destination wasn't marked.
Just peeling stickers, smoke in the air, and bass that made the walls tremble.
Julian said nothing.
Lined up behind two blond boys, muddy boots, gravel stuck to their soles, cheap coats on their shoulders.
1:05 AM.
Dockside air was damp, like an old hard drive left running too long.
The door opened.
The kick hit straight into the chest.
No tickets. No speech.
He didn't enter a venue.
He entered a frequency.
He walked in with the crowd.
Exposed steel beams overhead, floor sticky with cement and beer.
Lights flashed erratically, not for aesthetic, just to blur faces.
The DJ booth was buried in the back.
A single red beam pointed directly at Julian's forehead.
The music was broken techno. Cut, stitched, glitched.
Julian stood at the edge.
Closed his eyes.
No one looked at him.
No one cared who he was.
He listened to his heartbeat syncing with the kick.
He moved.
Not dancing.
His body adjusted, like it remembered a language it never spoke out loud.
Sweat, smoke, perfume.
It smelled like an animal.
He didn't need to explain anything.
He just had to stand there.
Sweat trickling down his neck.
Eyes following the strobe.
Soling down the floor, one grind at a time.
Someone laughed.
Not at him, at the ceiling.
A hand grabbed him.
A girl.
Face unclear.
Her voice pressed into his ear—sharp, electric:
"Come."
She laughed. Turned.
Pulled him toward the heaviest bass.
The last song didn't end,
just shifted texture.
They burst out of the warehouse.
The beat still exploding behind them,
lights bursting like fireworks thrown at their backs.
Julian didn't look back.
Neither did she.
He was pulling her, barefoot chaos, breath like steam.
Someone shouted "afterparty!" behind them,
but they couldn't hear anymore.
Only ghost bass echoing in their ears.
The cab driver glanced at them. Said nothing.
Julian's apartment was white.
The shoes came off.
They collapsed on the floor.
She landed in his arms like she might dissolve.
No lights.
Just the fridge glow, flickering, unstable.
They didn't speak.
He carried her,
from the door to the couch,
from the couch to the bathroom,
from the bathroom to the bed.
It wasn't conscious.
They were still dancing,
just at a different tempo.
The song looped in his head.
The beat never left.
It settled under his collarbone like old breath.
Her nails dragged across his back—wet.
Sweat?
Water?
He couldn't tell.
He heard a sound in his throat like an animal exhale.
The sky began to shift.
Grey-blue light leaked through the edge of the curtains.
She lay on his chest.
Breath slowing.
Nothing was over.
But nothing could be said.
He moved.
She tightened her grip on his wrist.
The beat outside had long stopped.
The phone didn't ring.
Greg didn't call.
No new emails.
The world seemed to have forgotten the two of them.
Julian closed his eyes, listening to his own heartbeat,
each thump echoing in the empty room,
like the last drum machine still ticking.
He woke before the alarm.
The curtains were open.
The sky was the color of acoustic foam in a boardroom.
She faced away from him, shoulders buried under the duvet,
just a damp lock of hair resting against his chest.
Julian opened his eyes.
Thought nothing.
There was still a faint buzz in his ears,
like someone had compressed last night's rhythm into a single line, and pinned it to his eardrum.
He got up quietly, didn't wake her.
The white shirt was draped over the chair.
The T-shirt lay on the kitchen floor.
His jacket was collapsed by the door.
The air still carried their bodies, sweat, water, the echo of night.
The bathroom light flicked on.
The man in the mirror didn't move.
He washed his face, shaved, blow-dried his hair.
As the towel passed his neck,
he saw his own brow tense then release,
instantly.
7:15 AM.
He sat at the small kitchen table, tying his tie.
The coffee wasn't brewed.
The kettle hadn't hissed.
The fridge light was on. He didn't open it.
She was still in the room—sleeping, maybe pretending.
No words.
No requests.
No goodbye.
He didn't write a note.
Didn't leave a single particle of tone behind.
On the commute, the streets felt pre-cleared.
The tram wasn't crowded.
The office building's guard hadn't even shifted stance.
When he badged into the floor,
he could hear the soles of his shoes on the carpet,
clearer than music.
The ringing in his ears was still there.
But softer, the system's allowed margin of noise.
Not enough to trigger an alarm.
He sat down.
Emma handed him a file.
Tomasz nodded.
Greg passed behind him, tapped the back of his chair, and said:
"Morning. All good?"
Julian turned.
Smiled, just right.
"All good."
The screen lit up.
Emails refreshed.
Calendar pushed.
The rhythm was back.
His heartbeat synced with the typing pattern.
As his finger clicked open the file, he knew,
last night's music wouldn't show up in the system.
But his body remembered.