08-08-2025, 12:45 AM
Ozy’s set was entering its final phase—a slow burn toward detonation. He always ended his hours with something memorable, not merely for the ears but for the cameras, for the whispers, for the mythology.
The crowd was already pliant, limbs loose, eyes glassy in the way that meant they’d follow him anywhere. The bass swelled, dropped away entirely, leaving nothing but a skeletal melody threaded with a slow, predatory rhythm. He held them there suspended in the absence long enough for people to glance around, searching, confused.
That’s when he stepped forward from behind the decks. Not far. Just enough. Enough to be seen in full.
A ripple went through the dance floor. Phones tilted upward. He let the pause stretch one heartbeat more. Two. Then slipped the beat back in like a knife into soft flesh. The crowd broke. Bodies surged again.
The lighting tech, trained well, tightened the spot so the shimmer of Ozy’s crucifix caught against his throat. He tilted his head, scanning the crowd not as a DJ looks at dancers, but as a sovereign evaluates a court. His gaze landed, briefly, on a tall man in a fine suit moving with an electric-blue companion. They fit, in the way mismatched puzzle pieces sometimes still hold together under pressure.
Ozy didn’t linger. Not yet.
Instead, he turned toward a knot of regulars at stage right. Gilded children of the city, their jewelry brighter than their intellects, offering a faint smile. One of them shouted something incoherent but enthusiastic, waving a drink in his direction. He accepted the toast with a slow raise of his glass, nothing exaggerated, but perfectly calibrated to make half the floor believe it was meant for them.
When the final track built toward its climax, Ozy motioned for the next DJ to come forward: a nervous French-Korean man whose set he’d personally approved, more out of curiosity than faith. Ozy leaned close, murmured something inaudible over the roar (advice, a benediction, a warning, or all three) and then stepped away, leaving the decks without haste. The crowd reacted like a school of fish parting around a predator.
Down on the floor, hands reached toward him, some brushing his arm, his shoulder. He didn’t break stride. A smile here, a look there. Tiny gifts he gave freely, because they cost him nothing and bought loyalty.
He didn’t move toward the man in the suit. That would be too direct. Instead, he passed along the edge of the floor, positioning himself at a corner table where he knew the sightlines were perfect. The servers descended instantly, placing a drink he hadn’t ordered before him but knew would arrive. He ignored it for the moment, crossing one leg over the other, leaning back with the relaxed poise of someone who knows the world will come to him.
And then, with a glance just sharp enough to catch, he let his eyes sweep the room again passing over the dancers, the blue dress, the fine suit: before moving on, as if the thought of them had already been dismissed.
The hook was set. Now he would see who took the bait.
The crowd was already pliant, limbs loose, eyes glassy in the way that meant they’d follow him anywhere. The bass swelled, dropped away entirely, leaving nothing but a skeletal melody threaded with a slow, predatory rhythm. He held them there suspended in the absence long enough for people to glance around, searching, confused.
That’s when he stepped forward from behind the decks. Not far. Just enough. Enough to be seen in full.
A ripple went through the dance floor. Phones tilted upward. He let the pause stretch one heartbeat more. Two. Then slipped the beat back in like a knife into soft flesh. The crowd broke. Bodies surged again.
The lighting tech, trained well, tightened the spot so the shimmer of Ozy’s crucifix caught against his throat. He tilted his head, scanning the crowd not as a DJ looks at dancers, but as a sovereign evaluates a court. His gaze landed, briefly, on a tall man in a fine suit moving with an electric-blue companion. They fit, in the way mismatched puzzle pieces sometimes still hold together under pressure.
Ozy didn’t linger. Not yet.
Instead, he turned toward a knot of regulars at stage right. Gilded children of the city, their jewelry brighter than their intellects, offering a faint smile. One of them shouted something incoherent but enthusiastic, waving a drink in his direction. He accepted the toast with a slow raise of his glass, nothing exaggerated, but perfectly calibrated to make half the floor believe it was meant for them.
When the final track built toward its climax, Ozy motioned for the next DJ to come forward: a nervous French-Korean man whose set he’d personally approved, more out of curiosity than faith. Ozy leaned close, murmured something inaudible over the roar (advice, a benediction, a warning, or all three) and then stepped away, leaving the decks without haste. The crowd reacted like a school of fish parting around a predator.
Down on the floor, hands reached toward him, some brushing his arm, his shoulder. He didn’t break stride. A smile here, a look there. Tiny gifts he gave freely, because they cost him nothing and bought loyalty.
He didn’t move toward the man in the suit. That would be too direct. Instead, he passed along the edge of the floor, positioning himself at a corner table where he knew the sightlines were perfect. The servers descended instantly, placing a drink he hadn’t ordered before him but knew would arrive. He ignored it for the moment, crossing one leg over the other, leaning back with the relaxed poise of someone who knows the world will come to him.
And then, with a glance just sharp enough to catch, he let his eyes sweep the room again passing over the dancers, the blue dress, the fine suit: before moving on, as if the thought of them had already been dismissed.
The hook was set. Now he would see who took the bait.