Julian #2
I used to. I used to feel things like that. But somewhere along the way, I lost the ability. Maybe it was the war. Maybe it was the first contract. Maybe it was my mother's death, when I realized that the only person who ever really knew me was gone, and I was completely alone.
I don't know. And I don't think about it.
By the time we land, it's fully dark, and the island is alive with light.
I can see it from the plane—strings of white and gold stretching along the coast, pulsing like a heartbeat.
I grab my backpack from the overhead compartment and make my way through the small airport, moving quickly and efficiently.
I don't check in with anyone. I don't make eye contact. I just walk.
Outside, the air is warm and dry, laced with salt and a heady floral scent.
It's paradise, the pulse of the clubs audible in the distance, making my heart rate pick up.
I hail a cab and give the driver the name of a hotel I found online—something modest, nothing flashy.
I don't need luxury. I just need a bed and a shower.
The drive is short, maybe fifteen minutes, and the driver doesn't try to make conversation, which I appreciate.
I stare out the window, watching the island pass by—white buildings with terracotta roofs, palm trees swaying in the breeze, groups of people laughing and stumbling down the streets, already drunk even though it's barely ten o'clock.
The hotel is exactly what I expected. Small, clean, and unremarkable.
I check in under another alias—James Carter, from London—and pay in cash.
The clerk barely looks at me as he hands over the key.
The room is on the third floor, and it's fine.
A bed, a bathroom, a window that looks out over the street.
I drop my backpack on the floor and stand there for a moment, listening to the muffled sound of music drifting up from somewhere below.
I roll my shoulders and crack my neck, exhaling and letting some of my tension drain out.
This is a vacation, I remind myself. One night to drink and fuck and not think about what I'm going to be doing in New York.
I deserve this. A little break from the cold reality of my typical world.
I want to lose myself in the noise and the heat and the anonymity of it all. I want to forget, just for a few hours, what I am and what I do.
I strip off my clothes and step into the shower, letting the hot water pound against my shoulders.
I stay there longer than I need to, letting the steam fill the small bathroom, letting my mind go blank.
When I get out, I dry off and pull on clean clothes that suit the vibe of the island—dark brown chinos, a linen shirt that I leave unbuttoned enough to show the gold chain at my throat, and the dark ink curling beneath the hair on my muscled chest. I check my reflection in the mirror.
I look tired. I always look tired. But I also look like someone who's just here to have a good time.
Good enough. I grab my wallet and my phone and head out.
—
The streets are packed.
Everywhere I look, there are people—beautiful people, drunk people, people who look like they've never had a problem in their lives. They're laughing and shouting and stumbling, their faces lit up with something I can't remember ever feeling—joy, or just the illusion of it.
I walk through the crowd, letting it swallow me up, and follow the sound of music.
It's everywhere, spilling out of open club doors, bass lines so heavy I can feel them in my chest. It doesn't take long to find a club.
They're everywhere, their neon signs glowing in the darkness, their doors open wide.
I pick one at random—Amnesia, the sign says—and walk up to the entrance.
There's a line, but I don't get in it. I walk straight to the bouncer, a massive guy with a shaved head and arms the size of tree trunks, and slip him two hundred-euro notes. He looks at me, then at the money, and steps aside without a word.
Inside, the club is chaos. The music is deafening, and the space is huge, strobe lights and lasers cutting through the darkness, illuminating bodies moving in waves. The air is thick with heat and sweat and the faint smell of alcohol and a haze of cologne and perfume and body oils.
I make my way to the bar, weaving through the crowd, and order a whiskey, neat. The bartender pours the drink and pushes it my way, raising one eyebrow as he takes me in. "You been here before?"
"Nah."
"You're gonna love it, man. Best club on the island."
I take the glass and down half of it in one swallow, letting the burn settle in my chest. Then I turn, watching the crowd.
This is what I came for. This noise, this chaos, this complete and utter lack of meaning.
No one here knows who I am. No one cares.
I'm just another body in the crowd, just another man looking to lose himself for a few hours.
I finish my drink and order another. The bartender pours it without a word this time, and I take it and move away from the bar, deeper into the club.
The dance floor is packed, bodies pressed together, moving in time with the music.
I find a spot near the edge and just stand there, watching.
The strobe lights flash across faces, and I feel nothing.
It's what makes me good at my job. I drain my second whiskey and set the glass on a nearby table. The alcohol is starting to work, dulling the edges of my thoughts, and I feel myself relax slightly.
This is good. This is what I needed. One night of nothing.
I close my eyes and let the music wash over me, and for the first time in a long time, I feel almost... calm.
I push my way into the crowd, joining the heaving mass of bodies to find one to press against mine for the evening.