After I dumped my bags at the hotel, not even bother unpacking, I drove into central London to meet up with the team.
The club was already loud from the pavement. Bass thumping through concrete and a line curled around the corner I skipped with just my face.
Now I’m inside.
Bottles on ice.
Sectioned off.
Yet people still were surrounding me.
People were still coming and going nonstop. Mostly girls with cameras and guys with jerseys, all shoving phones in my face before anyone’s said hello.
“Titan, just one!”
“Smile, bruv!”
“Can you shout out my cousin?”
Thank God I brought the balaclava.
I pull it over my head, fabric soft against my jaw, hiding everything but my eyes.
It takes the edge off.
Makes me feel less like prey.
I lean closer to Sol, voice low so it doesn’t carry over the music.
“This is supposed to be a club outing,” I say flatly. “Not a fucking meet and greet.”
Sol laughs, already half-drunk, arm slung over the back of the booth. “Come on, man. It’s good to meet fans.”
“Fans don’t need to breathe on me.”
He bumps my shoulder. “You’re being posh. It’s chill, bruv. Relax.”
I scan the room anyway.
Security posted at the edges.
A girl sliding into the seat beside me like she’s been invited too.
This is the part I don’t talk about in interviews. Because this is the part that annoys me the most.
All of it closing in at once.
I tip my head back, stare at the ceiling lights cutting through smoke, and willing myself to last the night.
But I can’t. I refuse to suffer unnecessarily. So I’m calling it.
“Light,” I stand up. “I’m gotta head?—”
That’s when I smell it.
Nutmeg. Cinnamon.
Sweet and smoky.
