They stood on either side of the door, the same thought tugging at them: Do we just bust in? Kick it down? What's waiting?
Julian drew in a breath, pressing his ear to the wood. Nothing. No shuffle of feet. No voices. Soundproof? The quiet only made it worse, like the room itself was holding back a secret.
He cocked his head toward Simon– Well?
Simon looked at the MasterCard in his hand, then at the lock. For half a heartbeat, he considered. But too much thinking wouldn't get them anywhere. His right hand slid back to rest on his gun. A sharp nod. That was enough.
Julian's grip tightened on the handle. His left arm shifted behind him, ready.
One last look. Then—
Swipe.
Click.
Push.
"Surprise," Julian murmured, stepping in with Simon close behind, the door shutting soft as a whisper.
And then—
"Ah, ah— more, harder—!"
"Yeah—yeah—ahh, ahh!"
The sound hit them first — loud, raw, frantic. Moans bouncing off the walls, filling the room like a cheap soundtrack. Then came the sight.
A blonde woman, naked, her body jerking up and down in messy rhythm. And underneath her – Steven Roan, the man they were here for – equally naked, equally loud. Who was on top of who didn't even seem clear anymore.
Julian froze, his brain stalling for a full second, like it refused to load what his eyes were feeding it.
This? Really? After all that?
His hand slipped away from the gun. He let the silence hang just long enough to sting, then calmly rapped his knuckles on the doorframe.
Knock, knock.
"Fun's over, clowns," he said, a crooked smile pulling at his lips. "Curtain drops the second I walk in."
The female clown was the first to notice Julian's presence – her golden hair snapping like a curtain pulled back too early on stage. She froze mid-ride, her body stiffening, the painted mask of pleasure slipping into something closer to shame. Her gaze darted from Julian's shadow to Simon's calm figure, and in that instant, the room's circus lights went dark. The performance was over.
"Why'd you stop, baby?" Steven groaned from beneath her, voice half-slurred, still blind to the new audience. His tone was lazy, petulant – a clown drunk on his own act, not yet aware the tent had collapsed around him.
Julian's voice cracked the silence, sharp but casual, as if he were calling last orders at a bar. "Show's over, lady. Step off the ride. We've got business to discuss."
She obeyed without hesitation. It was as though she'd been waiting for someone, anyone, to ring the bell and call an intermission. Sliding off him, she scrambled across the floor, gathering her clothes. The fabric clung to her sweaty skin as she yanked each piece on in a frantic sequence, bra half-hooked, blouse crooked, skirt twisted.
"Hey, hey!" Steven's voice rose, muffled with outrage. "We ain't even halfway done, where the hell you going, you bitch?"
She didn't answer. The only sound from her was the soft click of a handbag clasp snapping shut. Her eyes cut to him once, a flicker, a second of recognition that said everything words wouldn't. And then it was gone. She pulled the bedsheet across the bed in one sweep, covering the wreckage of their circus act, hiding him in white cotton like a body in a morgue.
Julian followed her with his eyes as she walked past. She looked smaller now, hunched, clutching her bag like a shield, her gaze fixed on the carpet as though afraid the ground might laugh at her too. Simon stepped aside, his presence giving her a silent corridor of mercy. She staggered slightly, her perfume and sweat trailing like the last note of a broken song.
When the door clicked shut, the silence was heavier than before.
Julian exhaled through his teeth, turning back to the bed with a dry smirk. "Well, what do we have here? One clown soakin' his balls, and his woman drownin' in tears. Have some damn respect for her, will you."
Steven finally blinked, his head rolling weakly side to side, eyes glassy. "Haaah… who… are you…?"
Julian leaned in, voice soft and poisonous. "We're angels, didn't you hear? Heaven sent. You've been too rough on your wife, my friend. Time you learned the rules of the act. Speak the truth, and maybe—just maybe, you'll earn a ticket to the holy land."
"Haah." Nothing was getting through. Steven's voice dragged out like a drunk jester at the end of a carnival, "Holy land… angels? Did that slut send you? Haaa??"
"Yea-no." Julian's eyes drifted from Steven's dazed, sweat-slick face to the nightstand. There, sitting innocently by the clown's balding head, was a small orange bottle. He picked it up slowly, gave it a shake, empty. Not a single pill rattled back.
He stared at it for a second, brows raised. Did this clown really swallow the whole circus?
"My friend," Julian began, tone laced with mock sympathy, "can you tell me what happened to all the tablets that were inside this bottle?"
"Ohh, they're all here." Steven's lips curled into something between a smirk and a drool. He opened his mouth wide and pointed inside like a kid showing off candy.
Julian leaned in slightly, eyes narrowing. He really did. Every last pill. How much desperate he was ?"
"Ohh… that's pretty sad." Julian sighed, rolling the bottle between his fingers. "Now then, can you tell me who told you about these tablets?"
"Who…? Yeah… who told me about this." Steven's eyes darted to the ceiling, chasing thoughts that weren't there.
"Tch." Julian clicked his tongue, the sound sharp, like a whip crack in an empty tent. He crouched closer, voice firmer, "Not who. Look carefully, okay?" He shoved the empty bottle right up to Steven's face. "Now, could you tell me again… what his name is?"
"Name…? I don't… know…" Steven's eyes fluttered, lids heavy, the fool fading mid-performance.
Julian straightened, tossing the bottle onto the sheets. "Great. Everything out of the script." He muttered, half to himself. "Should I call someone to bring the relief injection? It won't take much time."
He turned toward Simon, half-expecting his partner to already be moving, maybe pulling some trick of his own to wring truth from the fool. But Simon stood there, still and unreadable.
Julian frowned, waiting. "He's all out. I don't think we can get anything from him soon." Silence. The weight of Simon's lack of response pressed harder than Steven's drunken mumbling.
If Simon can pull answers out, why doesn't he? And if he can't… then what the hell are they really standing here for?
Julian fixed his stare on the half-conscious clown slumped before him. He let out a slow breath and pressed the empty orange bottle right against Steven's dull eyes.
"Do you see this bottle?"
"Haaa…"
"Do you recognize it?"
"Aaa…"
"Who told you about the tablets?"
"Don't—"
A slap snapped his head sideways.
"What's his name?"
"I on't—"
Another slap.
"Where can we find him?"
"I!!!" Steven's voice cracked, frustration bubbling like a drunk trying to argue with a streetlamp. "Don't—"
Another slap silenced him.
Julian closed his eyes briefly, then reopened them, calm but coiled. "Who—"
"Ahhhh…" Steven moaned, mouth hanging wide, like a clown begging for peanuts under the big top.
Julian's patience broke. His hand swept behind his back, pulled free the gun, cocked it with a clean click, and shoved the muzzle between Steven's teeth.
"Wgh..ghhh!"
"Answer, dipshit." Julian hissed, voice hard. "Or I'll lace you with more holes than a block of Swiss. And when the tablets kick in, you'll be too fried to figure out which hole to plug first. Do you get me ?"
Steven's eyes fluttered in panic. "Gh… ga…"
"Good." Julian's finger slid the trigger partway back. "Before I count to three, you're gonna give me a name, and a place. Got it?"
"Ggh… ga…"
"One."
Steven's body stiffened, his tongue tripping over the steel, babbling gibberish.
"Two." Julian yanked the gun out, and air rushed into Steven's throat with a gasp.
"Vag–Varga!" he blurted, desperation spilling fast. "Met him three times… Pandora Hotel… room 404–"
"Three."
The muzzle slammed back into his mouth, gagging him again.
"See? Now you talkin." Julian's tone was flat, businesslike. He flicked his eyes toward Simon. "What do we do with him?"
Simon gave only a faint nod, then turned for the door. No words, no hesitation. Just the kind of verdict that didn't need explaining.
Julian lingered a moment, watching the clown's eyes dart left and right like a trapped animal. He almost sounded sympathetic when he whispered, "You will be remembered, my friend. Curtain falls."
Steven's muffled scream rattled deep in his throat.
Click.
No bang. No blood. Just the hollow punchline of an empty chamber, leaving the audience hanging. The greatest trick the clown never saw coming.
Julian smirked, not at Steven, but at the silence. Then he turned and followed Simon into the hall.
"We still have to go all the way back, ha…" he muttered, his thoughts already racing ahead. Black Palace, Mrs. Roan, Steven, Varga. No–before all that, the alley. Always the alley. The first slip on the banana peel.
He quickened his pace to match Simon's. "I have some nasty feeling about this, don't you think we send some— Sara or Paul ? Maybe both to quickly secure the place ?
It'll take us time to get there anyway."
Simon paused at the elevator, finger hovering above the button. Julian wasn't wrong. The Roans had been safe because they were off-stage, never part of the act. But Varga? Every circus had a wild card.
"Alright. I'll call her."
The elevator chimed open, a stage cue if there ever was one. They stepped inside. Simon pulled out his phone and dialed. Two rings later—
"Yeah. It's me," came Sara's voice.