Look Behind CHAPTER 49: ABYSS BLUE

You see that guy? Yeah, the one who is standing at the higher ground.

White shirt, gold chain, eyes like he already owns the place. That's Ramon.

He talks too loud and laughs too easily. He's always got people around him who'd stab each other just to buy him a drink.

He has been running "import" work for the past five years, where no one asks what's inside the boxes. Governnt contract by day, ghost shipnts by night. He doesn't even hide it anymore. That's the thing about power; once it's big enough, you can walk around wearing it like cologne.

Now, look over at the back tables. See the guy with the buzzcut and the old military jacket? That's Kaito.

He doesn't smile. He doesn't blink much either. Rumor has it he used to work intel for so special unit until he went off the grid. He just appeared one day. Started running security gigs, small deals, data trades. The type of stuff you don't put in emails. People say he can make anyone disappear. Not by killing them, but by deleting them. Like they never existed.

The big guy near the dance floor? That's Briggs.

You can tell by how the crowd moves around him. He has a big fra, a bald head, and a scar near his jaw. He runs protection rackets for half the nightclubs in the east end. He doesn't carry a gun, and doesn't even need one. When you've got hands like sledgehamrs and a temper like his, the city works as your weapon.

And that smirk? That's a man who's broken enough bones to forget how many.

And that quiet one, sitting alone by the stairs, smoke curling from his cigarette? That's Vico.

He has sharp eyes, wears a dark suit, and has no entourage. He doesn't talk to anyone unless he's buying or selling sothing worth killing for. He has that look, that says I know things you'd rather stay buried. No one really knows who Vico works for, and that's what scares everyone.

Different corners, different drinks, but the sa tension.

All four in the sa club tonight. Coincidence? Maybe. But in this city, coincidences are just traps waiting to snap.

And ? I'm just watching.

From the upper floor, tucked in the dark with a half-empty glass.

The music's too loud, the lights too fake, and every single face in here is lying about sothing. But not them. No, those four don't lie. They promise.

And promises from people like that? They always co with bodies.

Ramon. Yeah, that's his guy. Paul thought so, eyes half-closed, cigarette burning down between his fingers. Don't tell you forgot about that night?

Good.

Because Paul sure didn't. And you rember what his goal was, right? Yeah, that's it.

Now how the hell does he get close to Ramon? Roxy, maybe.

That slick guy knows everyone who matters, at least on this side of the river. Yeah, Roxy could pull the strings, but that's going to take ti. And ti's sothing Paul doesn't have much of left.

He leaned forward, elbows on the railing, scanning the crowd like it might whisper an answer. So faster way, what could it be? Do you have any ideas?

No? Thought so.

He tapped the ash off his smoke and exhaled slowly.

"Yeah, neither," he muttered under his breath.

Then—

"Wait," his voice cut through his own head. He squinted through the smoke, scanning the far corner.

That face. He's seen that face before.

It took him a second, mory flashed back to the streetlight, cold night, blood and concrete. Snake's friend.

"Rico."

Yeah. The sa guy who was with that drunk asshole. Paul knocked him out cold without breaking a sweat. But now that he recalled clearly, 'Rico' had been silent that night.

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He watched everything from the sidelines. He gave a half-hearted apology that was just an excuse. Like he knew how things would play out.

What's he doing here?

Paul leaned forward slightly, eyes narrowing with interest.

"Well, ain't this sothing..."

There, you see him now?

Rico. Sa lazy lean, sa bored look. But this ti he's dressed like he belongs here. Not like the kid watching from the sidelines that night. No, tonight he's in his elent.

He's got that smooth rhythm, slipping between tables, trading laughs and handshakes like currency. Every move is clean. A word here, a nod there. This type of guy who doesn't try to get noticed but sohow always ends up in the center anyway.

Paul watched from the shadows above, elbow resting against the railing. His cigarette burned slowly between his fingers. The music thumped below like a heartbeat, heavy and pulsing, almost alive. Rico's voice blended with it, low and sharp.

Paul didn't move. Just observed.

The way Rico talked, the way people leaned in when he spoke, that was respect, not fear. That told him enough.

Then Rico's head turned.

Not a full look, just a shift. A small, deliberate motion, like he already knew where Paul was standing before he even looked.

Their eyes t.

No sound, no words. Just a quiet standoff suspended in the haze of lights and music. One standing high, one below. Yet sohow it didn't feel like height mattered.

Paul's gaze was steady and unreadable. Rico's carried the weight of soone who's seen worse and lived through it.

For a second, it was like watching two wolves on opposite cliffs, both trying to asure the other's bite.

Then Paul smiled faintly. Invisible through the smoke. Not mockery, not greeting. Just a silent I see you.

Rico held the gaze for a beat longer, then turned away, slipping back into the crowd like nothing happened.

But both of them knew, sothing did.

Paul's hands slipped off the railing. It was ti to leave. His steps, slow but steady, echoed faintly against the tal floor. He wasn't the sa as when he walked in; sothing about his presence felt heavier now.

Just as he reached the door, a voice cut through the bass. "Hey, mate."

Paul stopped and looked over his shoulder.

A guy in an oversized hoodie leaned against the wall, half in shadow, half bathed in red light. Skinny fras, twitchy fingers, looked slinky, that always had sothing tucked under the hood.

Paul pointed to himself. ?

"Yeah, you. Co here for a sec." The guy's tone was low and cautious.

Paul approached, not expecting much, maybe so street hustle, maybe sothing worse. Either way, it wasn't a big deal to hear one guy out.

"I got a crazy thing here," the man said, grinning quickly. "Wanna look?"

Paul tilted his head, saying nothing.

The guy glanced left, then right. Checking if anyone was watching before his hands disappeared under the hoodie. A faint zip sound. He pulled out a slim box, about six inches long, two wide. It looked like a glasses case, but heavier.

"Fully loaded," the guy said, stepping closer and flipping it open like it was treasure.

Paul's eyes narrowed.

An injection.

The club lights kept flickering,red, blue, white. So it was hard to tell what was inside. But when a pulse of blue light crossed between them, he caught it for a second: dark blue liquid, thick and slow, with tiny shimring specks floating like stars in a night sky.

Beautiful, in a twisted way.

The guy grinned. "So? What do you think? Wanna try this out?"

Paul's face stayed calm. "Nah. I'm good."

He started to turn, but the man pressed on, voice quick and desperate. "Wait, wait, hear out, mate. You'll regret it if you walk away."

Paul sighed, half-smile tugging at his lip. "Alright. Tell . What's it capable of?"

"Now you're talking." The guy's grin widened. "This one's called Abyss Blue. You shoot it once, and the world slows down, bends, lts. Everything you hate, everything you love, it all turns quiet. Like dreaming with your eyes open."

Paul raised an eyebrow. "And that's supposed to be good?"

The dealer chuckled. "For so people, man, it's the only way they can breathe."

Paul stayed silent for a beat, then nodded once. "How much?"

The guy blinked, surprised. "Oh, you are interested."

"Not really," Paul said, voice even. "But I like collecting pretty things."

The guy's grin stretched. "Five grand."

Paul blinked once, deadpan. "Are you fucking with ? Five grand? For a needle?"

The dealer laughed like he'd heard that one too many tis. "Nah, man. This ain't so low-tier stuff, alright. It's a trip to another world. The people up there—" he jerked his chin toward the VIP section. "They use it too. Helps 'em see clearly. Helps 'em forget."

Paul smirked faintly. "Yeah, sounds poetic. Still not worth five."

The guy frowned. "You think I'm playing? You can't find this anywhere else. Straight from the docks, no middleman. Pure batch."

Paul folded his arms. "Three."

"Hell no."

"Then keep it," Paul said, turning slightly toward the door.

"Wait—four. Final."

Paul paused, pretending to think, fingers drumming against his pocket. "Three-five."

"Three-eight, I'm bleeding already," the man shot back.

Paul finally turned, looking him dead in the eye. "Three-five. Do you want to eat tonight or keep talking?"

The guy stared at him for a mont. Then his shoulders slumped, and the grin crept back. "Man, you drive a hard bargain. Fine. Three-five."

Paul took the box carefully, the weight cold in his hand. He counted the cash, smooth and quick. Then slipped it across.

The dealer pocketed the money, nodding. "Pleasure doing business. Don't use it all at once."

Paul gave him a look, unreadable. "Who said I'm using it at all?"

He turned, tucking the case inside his hoodie as the lights flared overhead, blue and gold mixing into sothing like twilight.

Paul pushed open the door, and the noise fell away.

The next sound wasn't bass or voices but the faint hum of the city, engines, sirens, and wind cutting between concrete. He stood on the balcony of his apartnt.

The air was cold and thin, brushing past his face. Down below, the streets stretched in restless motion, cars blinking through puddles, neon signs flickering half-dead. Sowhere, a dog barked. Sowhere else, laughter rose and fell.

Paul leaned on the rusted railing, eyes tracing the skyline like he had done a hundred tis before. Sa view. Sa lights. Different silence.

"Three-five," he muttered under his breath, almost amused. "Better be worth it."

The wind caught his words and carried them away.

But then a reply ca back. "You again."