Time's Blade

1.Stealing Fate

The club's strobe lights flickered in jagged intervals, casting erratic shadows as Matthew squeezed through the crowd. His heart raced to match the bass's relentless pounding, the heat and movement pulling him in every direction. Each step he took felt heavier, the alcohol dulling his senses as he pushed through a group of dancers.

The musky mix of sweat and perfume clung to his skin as he stumbled toward the dimly lit corridor, his vision swimming. The hallway tilted as the haze of alcohol pressed down on him, and he found himself seeking refuge in the restroom. But just as his fingers brushed the door, a subtle shift in the air caught his attention. He turned, unsteady, blinking as he tried to focus.

A man sat at a nearby table, calm amid the chaos. With his buzz-cut hair and a sharp, defined beard, he cut a figure of precision and control. Even in Matthew's drunken stupor, he could sense this man exuded authority, as if the crowd's frenzy didn't touch him. Their eyes met—just for a moment. The man didn't react. His face remained unreadable, cold and unyielding, but the intensity in his gaze sent a shiver through Matthew. Something about him gnawed at the edges of Matthew's hazy thoughts, a quiet menace lurking beneath the surface.

He shook it off, his drunken mind dismissing the odd feeling, and pushed into the restroom. The stench of sweat and cheap cologne hit him, and beneath it, something metallic. The muffled thump of the club's bass reverberated through the walls as he leaned over the sink, splashing cold water on his face. The droplets felt sharp against his skin, cutting through the fog in his head for a moment.

His reflection in the grimy mirror wavered, warped by condensation and the alcohol fogging his brain. He gripped the edge of the sink, knuckles white, as the room seemed to spin. Matthew squeezed his eyes shut, trying to steady himself. But the door creaked open behind him, the sound barely registering through the dull pounding in his ears.

When a hand brushed his arm, he instinctively reached out, his fingers curling around a solid forearm for balance. His blurred vision cleared just enough to recognize the man from the table standing beside him. Up close, the cold, distant aura was even more unsettling. The man's buzz cut and sharply tailored suit were immaculate, contrasting starkly with Matthew's disheveled appearance and casual outfit—a leather jacket over a tank top. The man's silence spoke volumes, but Matthew's inebriated grin widened as his fingers briefly pressed against the man's chest.

"You're built like a brick wall, huh? Gym must be paying off..." he slurred, his voice dragging slightly. His hand lingered, fingers brushing over the man's suit with a casual carelessness that belied his true intent. In a practiced motion, Matthew slipped his fingers into the man's pocket. The wallet was in his pocket before the man could react.

The man's eyes darkened, a flint-like coldness replacing his once neutral expression. His voice cut through the haze like ice. "You should take it easy."

The chill in the man's voice sliced through Matthew's stupor for a brief second. He felt the weight of the wallet in his pocket, but he smiled lazily, pushing himself away from the sink. "Yeah... I'm good."

As Matthew staggered back toward the club, the encounter gnawed at him, though he couldn't quite pin down why. He caught a glimpse of himself in the mirror by the exit—shirt untucked, hair mussed, his reflection a distorted mess. He shrugged, his fingers brushing the stolen wallet in his pocket.

The night, he told himself, was just beginning.

After dancing for a while, Matthew spotted the man he had encountered in the restroom and waved him over. The man's reaction was immediate—a cold stare that seemed to pierce through the noise and chaos. Without acknowledging Matthew, he turned his back and resumed talking to his friends. Undeterred, Matthew made his way toward their table.