Being a runner at the popular nightclub known as Astros wasn’t exactly a job that Mikhail would describe as “pleasant.”
There were far too many crowds of loud, drunk, and self-entitled people for that.
If there was one part of the job that was pleasant, however, it would be the inky blue and indigo stained glass ceiling high above all the crowds and noise. Integrated into the sky were lights that glowed in the pattern of real constellations. He’d heard it was crafted to be an exact replica of the very stars outside, complete with about a thousand enchanted bronze gears that rotated the piece according to the cycle of the Earth’s rotation.
Mikhail didn’t really understand all the intricacies of the artwork the club was named for, but he could appreciate the brief mental reprieve that looking up provided while dodging yet another plastered couple attempting to dance off of the designated dance floor.
The runner wrinkled his nose in annoyance and turned his attention back to the bar. More specifically, the analog clock hanging between two shelves stocked full of a wide variety of alcohol.
‘Five minutes,’ he consoled himself, sucking in a deep breath and trying for his best customer service smile. It fell a little short, turning into more of a grimace than a smile, but Mikhail pushed onward.
He delivered a final few meals to those in the seated sections, unsurprised but nevertheless a little dispirited when no one offered him a tip. Particularly table twenty-three, which he’d had to return to three separate times because the customer insisted her soup wasn’t hot enough.
Mikhail had no idea why she’d come to a nightclub to eat soup, but to each their own or whatever.
With thirty seconds left in his shift, Mikhail waded through the crowd with the grace of a dancer to the painted door marked “Employees Only”. He slipped through and stared his manager right in the eye as if to say, ‘Just try and stop me,’ as he smoothly entered his personal number to punch out.
His manager laughed loudly and raised his glass of water in a salute. “Thanks for the help, Mick. Be safe getting home.”
And then Mikhail was free, shrugging off the ridiculous vest he had to wear and stuffing it in his bag. He shook out an oversized, muted green hoodie and pulled it on, finishing the look with a gray beanie and replacing the uncomfortable dress shoes with a pair of green vans.
His black slacks, form-fitting down to his ankles, were innocuous enough that he rarely bothered with bringing replacement clothes. They weren’t outright uncomfortable like everything else, so they could wait.
As he stepped through the back exit of the club, he checked the time again on his phone. He’d been working so late into the night recently that it felt alien to have escaped at only 11 PM. He resolved to make the most of it by going to bed earlier, but deep down, he knew he’d probably end up spending at least three hours doom-scrolling on his phone until he passed out.
Mikhail quickly tapped out a request for an Uber, then spent the first few minutes of his wait fumbling with his earbuds, trying in vain to unravel the cords. Just as he succeeded and lifted the first earbud to his ear, a distant noise made him pause.
It was a voice, he was certain, raised in a shout that he couldn’t decipher the tone behind. That alone wasn’t really a cause for alarm, seeing as he heard shouting practically every night he waited outside the club for a ride. Spending hours in a place as noisy as Astros tended to temporarily deafen its patrons, not even taking into account the alcohol content in the place.
For some reason, though, Mikhail felt hesitant. He stayed frozen in place, earbud halfway to his ear, his other hand clasped around his phone in his hoodie pocket. His head cocked ever so slightly to the right, listening intently for a follow-up noise.
Several long seconds passed and there was nothing, so Mikhail decided to ignore it. The moment he pulled out his phone to select a song, though, he heard it again.
This time he was certain. That was definitely not a happy shout.
It was coming from somewhere off to his left, and driven by a morbid kind of curiosity, he approached the alley of the nightclub. He peered around the corner, not quite sure what to expect.
