Location: Lower Fenwick — The Freakshow — Night
The neon light flickered—purple, pink, purple—casting Nico's shadow in jagged shapes across the pavement. He swayed where he stood, arms still crossed in that pose, head still lifted, chest still heaving.
Then he hiccupped.
The pose broke. His arms dropped to his sides. His shoulders slumped. He staggered forward—one step, two, three—his feet dragging like they were wading through mud.
"That old fatty," he said.
His voice was thick. Slurred. But there was something beneath it. Something that wasn't just whiskey and regret.
"He took my time. My energy. My brains."
He jabbed a finger at his temple—missed, hit his cheek, tried again.
"Took them for granted. Used me. While he sat on his fat ass, taking a backseat, enjoying all the glory and wealth."
He turned in a slow circle, looking at the phones, the faces, the glowing screens.
"And what did I get? Let me tell you what I got."
He laughed. It was not a happy sound.
"Nothing. I got nothing."
---
The comments scrolled faster.
UrbanPoet: he's got a point though
DeepThinker: listen to the man
RebelHeart: when the hired gun speaks truth
SilentMajority: honestly I'd be pissed too
CuriousCat: go on, tell us more
Nico raised his hand. Not to wave—to gesture. His fingers curled, his palm faced the sky, his arm swept across the crowd like he was conducting an orchestra.
"There's a proverb," he said. "An old one. My grandmother used to say it."
He hiccupped.
"Why should you let someone else drive your life? They'll take all the fruit from your tree. But if you shove them out of the driver's seat—if you take the wheel yourself—then you're not the one receiving scraps. You're the one on the path toward your own intent."
His eyes were wild. Bloodshot. But focused.
"That's what I'm doing. Taking the wheel."
FireStarter: okay that's actually wise
LoneWolf: drunk philosopher
TruthSeeker: he's not wrong though
SageMind: the fruit from your tree... I like that
ChaosAgent: still a trainwreck but a poetic one
"That old bum," Nico continued, "after everything I did for him—everything—he wanted to use me like some guinea pig. Some idiot he could point at a problem and say 'fix it.'"
His hands moved—clawing at the air, tearing at something invisible.
"When I refused, he beat me. Spanked me. Like I was a child."
He shuddered.
"He even wanted to take advantage of me. You know what I mean."
VileBile: wait WHAT
ShockedPickachu: did he just say...
JusticeHunter: that old man is despicable
PrideFlag: oh hell no
RighteousRage: I didn't know Frederick was one of those
MotherHen: disgusting
"I escaped before he could do it," Nico said. "But I know him. He'll find someone else. Some other poser to do his dirty work. Because that's the kind of guy he is."
His voice dropped.
"And if this continues—if no one stops him—we'll all be ruined. Exposed. Destroyed."
Realist: didn't you just expose him yourself?
CynicalCat: let the man have his moment
GrimReaper: we'll probably see him in a coffin next
DarkHumor: too soon
Nico didn't read the comments. He was staring at the Freakshow's neon sign.
"Right now," he said, "as the new godfather, the first thing I'm going to do is this."
He raised his arms.
"The drinks. The refreshments. Everything. Tonight, it's on me."
---
The queue erupted.
Not in words—in movement. Bodies pressed forward. Hands reached out. Voices shouted—not angry, not confused, but eager.
"Free drinks?"
"Did he say free?"
"I'm in!"
"Move! Let me through!"
The velvet ropes buckled. The posts swayed. A young woman in a sequined dress pushed past a man in a leather jacket. Someone's phone flew out of their hand, caught by a stranger, passed back.
The bouncers looked at each other.
Their expressions shifted—from professional blankness to something that looked almost like relief. Like they had been waiting for permission to stop pretending.
One of them shrugged.
The other nodded.
They stepped aside.
---
Nico began to hum.
The melody was slow at first—almost mournful. A tune that didn't match the chaos around him. His voice was not good. It was not meant to be good. It was meant to be heard.
"I'm not your dummy anymore," he sang.
His feet shuffled—left, right, left.
"Not your pawn to push around the board."
His hands moved—fingers snapping, palms turning.
"I'm done playing by your rules."
The crowd parted as he walked toward the entrance. His steps were still unsteady, but there was purpose in them now. The neon light caught his face—pale, hollow, but with something burning behind his eyes.
"I'm not your soldier in this war."
He reached the door.
The bouncers didn't stop him.
They followed him inside.
---
The Freakshow's interior was a cavern of mirrored walls and colored lights.
Strobe lights. Laser beams. A disco ball that spun slow and indifferent. The music was loud—bass that vibrated in the chest, drums that echoed off the glass. Bodies moved on the dance floor—not dancing, thrashing. Arms up, heads back, mouths open in silent screams.
Nico stood in the doorway.
His shadow stretched across the floor.
Then he moved.
His body dropped—not falling, dipping. His knees bent. His spine curved. His arms extended—not reaching, slithering. His fingers curled and uncurled like they were searching for something to hold.
He rolled his shoulders.
His head lolled back.
His hips moved—side to side, then in a circle, then in a figure-eight that seemed to have no connection to the beat.
Someone whistled.
Someone cheered.
Nico didn't hear them.
He was somewhere else. In his own world. A world where he was not the punching bag. Not the errand boy. Not the godson who had failed.
He spun.
His leg kicked out—not high, not fast, just there. His arm followed. His head turned. His eyes—wild, wide, wet—found the mirror on the wall.
He was looking at himself.
And he was smiling.
---
The crowd had stopped dancing to watch.
Some of them were recording. Some were cheering. Some were just standing there, mouths open, phones forgotten in their hands.
Nico straightened.
His chest heaved. His breath came in ragged gasps. Sweat beaded on his forehead.
"Keep rocking!" he shouted.
His voice was hoarse.
"The party's just getting started!"
The crowd cheered.
Nico turned. He walked toward the back of the club, through a hallway lined with velvet ropes and VIP signs. A door at the end—plain, unmarked, with a keypad beside it.
He didn't use the keypad.
He pushed the door open.
It wasn't locked.
---
The hallway beyond was quiet.
The music faded. The lights dimmed. The air smelled of old cigar smoke and something else—something chemical, something that made Nico's nose wrinkle.
He walked.
His steps were steadier now. His shoulders were straighter. His hands—no longer trembling—hung at his sides.
He reached another door.
Two men stood in front of it. They were large—not bouncer-large, operative-large. Their suits fit perfectly. Their jaws were clean-shaven. Their eyes were hidden behind sunglasses, even in the dim light.
Earpieces curled around their ears.
"Mr. Morrecca," one of them said. "Does the godfather have clearance for you to enter?"
Nico stopped.
His head tilted.
His eyes—no longer bloodshot, no longer wild—studied the man's face.
"Do I," he said, "the one the godfather cherishes as his own—answer to someone of your stature?"
The man's expression shifted.
Not fear. Not anger. Something in between. Something that looked like calculation.
"I only meant—"
Nico's hand came up.
Palm out. Fingers spread.
"Stop."
The man stopped.
The silence stretched.
Nico stared at him. Not blinking. Not breathing. Just... waiting.
The man's throat moved.
"My apologies, Mr. Morrecca. Please, go ahead."
The door opened.
Nico stepped inside.
---
The room was an office.
Dark wood. Leather chairs. A desk the size of a small boat. Shelves lined the walls, filled with ledgers and files and things that had been hidden from the world.
Nico walked to the desk.
He ran his hand across the surface—smooth, polished, expensive. Then he swept his arm across it.
Papers flew. A lamp crashed. A glass of water shattered on the floor.
He moved to the shelves.
His hands pulled at ledgers, tossed them aside. He knocked over a stack of files. He shoved a row of books to the ground.
He was searching.
Not for money. Not for drugs. For something else. Something that would tell him what Frederick was planning. Something that would give him leverage.
His hand brushed against the underside of the desk.
A button.
Small. Metal. Hidden beneath the lip.
He pressed it.
Behind the shelves, a section of the wall slid open.
A safe.
Dark metal. Digital keypad. A handle that gleamed in the dim light.
Nico walked to it.
His fingers touched the cold surface. His reflection stared back at him—pale, hollow, but with something new in his eyes.
He smiled.
It was not a nice smile.
It was the smile of someone who had just found the keys to the kingdom.
---