Location: Lower Fenwick — The Freakshow — Night
The queue stretched from the velvet ropes to the corner of the block.
Bodies pressed together in a winding line—leather jackets, sequined dresses, sneakers that cost more than rent. The air smelled of perfume, sweat, and the faint chemical sweetness of vape clouds that drifted up toward the Freakshow's neon sign. The sign flickered—purple, pink, purple—casting the waiting crowd in shades of bruise and blush.
A young man in a silver tracksuit checked his phone. His friend, a woman with holographic nails, leaned against the rope.
"Freakshow just isn't the same anymore," the man said. "Ever since that vault-break foreigner exposed the owners for being losers."
"Tell me about it." The woman sighed. "Thanks to him, ticket prices dropped. But so did the vibe. If it weren't for the lounges—the private ones, you know—this place would be empty."
"The lounges are the only reason anyone still comes."
"That and the hope of seeing someone famous fall from grace."
They laughed.
Ahead of them, a figure staggered out of the shadows.
He was young—early twenties, maybe. His jacket was expensive but wrinkled, stained with something that smelled like whiskey and regret. His hair was disheveled. His eyes were bloodshot. His feet dragged across the pavement like they belonged to someone else.
"Hey," the man with the silver tracksuit said. "Isn't that Nico Morrecca?"
The woman squinted.
"No way."
"Way."
The figure stumbled closer.
His face caught the neon light—pale, hollow, with dark circles under his eyes that looked like bruises. He was muttering to himself, his lips moving around words that didn't quite form.
"Look at the poor fellow," someone in the queue whispered.
"Poor? More like sore loser," another replied. "What an embarrassment."
Nico stopped.
He looked up. His eyes found the woman with the phone—the influencer, her device held at arm's length, the Vtube Livestream logo glowing in the corner of the screen. Her other hand moved in quick, practiced gestures—adjusting the angle, zooming in, checking the comments.
He saw himself on her screen.
His own face, reflected back at him, surrounded by a cascade of emojis and scrolling text.
"You," he said.
His voice was slurred. He hiccupped.
"You viewers... you want to see something, don't you?"
The woman's eyes widened. Her hand trembled, but she didn't lower the phone.
"People love watching the fall," Nico continued. He spread his arms wide, almost losing his balance. "They love watching someone successful... crash. Burn. Become nothing."
The comments scrolled.
User_420: lol look at this clown
QueenBree: he's so wasted
CryptoTiger: wasn't he supposed to be a big deal?
Luna_Valor: oof the fall from grace is real
"You're not wrong," Nico said, reading the screen. "I was a big deal. I am a big deal."
He hiccupped again.
---
Two men appeared at the entrance of the Freakshow.
They were broad—shoulders like doors, necks like tree trunks. Their suits strained at the seams. Their faces were blank, practiced, the faces of men who had been paid to stand still and look intimidating for so long that they had forgotten how to do anything else.
They saw Nico.
They saw the phones.
They saw the Livestream.
"Mr. Morrecca," one of them said. "You should come inside."
Nico's head snapped toward them.
"Inside?" He laughed—a wet, ragged sound. "You want me inside? You want to hide me?"
He stepped toward them.
"I'm not going inside. I'm staying right here. Where everyone can see me."
The bouncer reached for his arm.
Nico's hand moved.
Not fast. Not slow. Just... sloppy. His palm connected with the bouncer's cheek—a slap that was more pathetic than painful.
"Don't touch me."
The bouncer didn't flinch. He reached again.
Nico's other hand came up. A backhand. The bouncer's head turned slightly.
"I said don't touch me!"
"Mr. Morrecca—"
"Leave me alone!"
Nico shoved him. The bouncer stepped back—not because the push was strong, but because he was no longer sure he wanted to be involved.
The second bouncer didn't move. His eyes flicked to the phones. To the Livestream. To the queue of people recording every moment.
"What do you think I am?" Nico yelled. "Some washed-up has-been? Some... some fatso's godson who can't even hold his liquor?"
He hiccupped.
"What do you think I am?"
The comments exploded.
ShadowHunter: wait did he just call out the old man?
GamerGirl_X: he said fatso godfather lol
BrickWall: I heard that old fellow is the real deal. Dirty dealings behind the scenes.
ConspiracyCarl: the Veilbreak podcast did an episode on him. he's a crook for sure.
Raven_Rose: how do you think they own a place like the Freakshow?
DarkKnight: my my how the mighty have fallen
VoidWalker: not only was he exposed for incompetence, now he's calling out his own godfather?
PixelPirate: talk about digging your own grave
"You're all recording this, aren't you?" Nico said.
He turned in a slow circle, taking in the phones, the faces, the glowing screens.
"Good. Let them see. Let them all see."
He raised his voice.
"I'm Nico Morrecca. Not that bum of a fatso goddad. I'm the one who makes him money. Not the other way around."
He pointed at the bouncers.
"These bouncers? They're not his. They're mine."
He pointed at the Freakshow's neon sign.
"That place? It's mine. Not his."
He paused.
Hiccupped.
"You see that? Everything you see—it's mine."
---
The bouncers exchanged glances.
The first one—the one who had been slapped—took a step back. His hands came up, palms out. Not defensive. Disengaging.
The second one followed.
They were washing their hands of the situation. Leaving the mess for someone else to clean.
Nico didn't notice.
He was still spinning, still gesturing, still talking to the phones.
"Your phones? They're not yours. They're mine. Because all the attention—all of it—is on me."
He spread his arms wide.
His head tilted back.
His chest expanded.
His hands came down—not to his sides, but crossed over his chest. Palms pressed against his shoulders. Fingers splayed. Chin lifted.
The pose was familiar. Iconic. The pose of a man who had scored a goal and claimed the world as his audience.
"I," he said, "am the new godfather of the Morrecca Brackside."
The comments flooded the screen.
SportsFanatic: RONALDO?
MemeLord: someone get this man a jersey
CasualObserver: he's lost his mind
TruthSeeker: is he serious?
NightOwl: this is the funniest thing I've ever seen
DramaQueen: the AUDACITY
SilentBob: someone call the old man
ChaosAgent: I can't look away
Nico held the pose.
His chest heaved. His eyes—bloodshot, wild—stared into the phones, into the cameras, into the Livestream.
"The new godfather," he repeated.
His voice was quieter now.
"Me. Not him. Me."
The neon sign flickered.
Purple. Pink. Purple.
And the queue watched in silence.
---