The Rust of Applause

The alley behind 'The Velvet Coffin' smelt of stale beer and desperation, a perfume Shiro had become intimately familiar with. Rainwater, iridescent with leaked coolant from the wheezing air-conditioner unit above, collected in the cracked asphalt. Each drop was a tiny explosion in the oppressive quiet between bass thumps bleeding through the fire door. He leaned against the brickwork, the rough texture a familiar anchor, and watched his breath plume in the damp air, a ghost of a ghost.

Inside was noise and heat and the press of bodies slick with cheap cologne and cheaper ambition. Out here was his sanctuary. He ran a thumb over the scar on his knuckle, a faint white line from a stunt gone wrong on the set of 'Cry Havoc 3'. Back then, a scar was a story, something the makeup department would enhance for close-ups. Now, it was just another piece of worn-out equipment, like the aching joint in his left knee that predicted the rain better than any weather forecast.

The fire door screeched open, vomiting a rectangle of purple light and a skinny kid in a hoodie. Shiro recognised him. Kenny. He'd been flitting around the edges of the club for a week, all nervous energy and darting eyes. He was clutching a small, padded envelope like it was a holy relic.

"Everything alright, Kenny?" Shiro's voice was gravel, dredged from a place of disuse.

"Yeah, man. Course. Just needed some air," Kenny stammered, not meeting his eyes. He was a terrible liar. Shiro had worked with the best liars in the business; they'd called it 'acting'.

"The air out here's got a bit of a bite. And it tends to attract rats," Shiro said, his gaze flicking to the alley's mouth, where two figures had just appeared, silhouettes against the sodium-orange glow of the main street.

Kenny saw them too. The colour drained from his face, leaving a pasty, terrified mask. "Oh, hell. They weren't supposed to... I gotta go."

"Go where? Through them?" Shiro sighed. It wasn't his problem. His job was to check IDs and stop drunks from starting fights over spilt drinks. His job was to be invisible, a forgotten landmark.

But the way the two men moved, a fluid, predatory tandem, sparked something deep inside him. It was a choreographed violence he knew better than his own reflection. They weren't just here to rough Kenny up. They were professionals.

"Give it to us, kid," the taller one said. His voice was flat, bored. He had a scar of his own, a ragged crescent that cut through his eyebrow.

"I don't have it," Kenny squeaked, backing away until his shoulders hit the brick wall next to Shiro.

"Don't make this a whole thing," the second one said, stepping forward. He was shorter, built like a fire hydrant. "We're on a schedule."

Shiro pushed himself off the wall. "Gentlemen. This is a private alley. For bins and existential dread. You're not on the list."

The tall one finally looked at him, a flicker of recognition in his eyes. "I know you. You're... Shiro. From 'Neon Dragon'. My dad loved that film. Said it was unrealistic but had heart."

"Tell your dad I appreciate the nuanced critique," Shiro replied. "Now, leave the kid alone."

Fire Hydrant chuckled. "Or what? You'll deliver a cheesy one-liner and jump through a pane of sugar glass? The world's a bit harder out here, champ."

He lunged for Kenny. It was sloppy, overconfident. Shiro didn't move like a movie star anymore. He moved like a man who was tired, whose body was a ledger of old pains. But the muscle memory was there, buried under layers of cynicism. He stepped in, not with a flashy block, but with a simple, brutal redirection. He used Fire Hydrant's own momentum, hooking an arm and sending him stumbling face-first into the dumpster. The clang was deeply satisfying.

Tall Guy was more cautious. He pulled a knife, the blade catching the dim light. "Bad choice, movie man."

"Was it?" Shiro said, his eyes on the blade. "I always thought my worst choice was agreeing to the sequel."

He kicked a loose brick on the ground. It skittered across the wet asphalt, a pathetic, clumsy attack. Tall Guy glanced down for a fraction of a second, and that was all Shiro needed. He closed the distance, his hand clamping down on the man's wrist, twisting with a practiced violence that made the bone grind. The knife clattered to the ground. A sharp jab to the throat, a knee to the solar plexus, and Tall Guy was on the ground, gasping like a landed fish.

Shiro stood over them, his chest heaving. The adrenaline was a bitter, metallic taste in his mouth. Kenny was staring, his mouth agape.

"Go," Shiro rasped. "Get out of here."

Kenny fumbled with the envelope, dropping a small, metallic object. A data chip. He scrambled to pick it up, then shoved the now-empty envelope at Shiro. "Here! Take it! Just... thanks."

He fled, vanishing into the night. Shiro looked at the empty envelope, then at the two groaning men. This wasn't in his job description.

A Call From a Dead Phone

He walked three blocks, the damp chill seeping into his bones, until he found it: a payphone, a dinosaur relic tucked into an alcove. The receiver was cold and greasy against his ear. He fed it the last of his coins and dialled a number he hadn't used in a decade.

It rang four times, then a click.

"You have an astounding amount of nerve calling this number, Shiro," the voice was female, crisp, and utterly unimpressed. Nana.

"Hello to you too, Nana. Still enjoying retirement?"

"I was, until about ten seconds ago. This had better be good. I'm missing a documentary about cephalopods."

"A kid named Kenny just tried to sell a data chip to some very unfriendly people. I might have... intervened."

A sigh on the other end of the line. "You 'intervened'. Shiro, you're not on a film set. The extras don't just go back to their trailers when you're done with them. What was on the chip?"

"How should I know?" He glanced down at his hand, and realised he'd picked up the chip Kenny had dropped. It was cool against his skin. "Actually... I seem to have acquired it."

Silence. A long, heavy pause that felt more dangerous than the fight in the alley. When she spoke again, her voice had lost all its flippancy.

"Where are you?"

He told her the intersection. He could hear the faint sound of typing in the background.

"Stay there. Don't talk to anyone. Don't move," she commanded.

"What's going on, Nana? Who are these people?"

The line went dead. Shiro stared at the receiver in his hand. The dial tone hummed its monotonous, indifferent song. He was alone again, under the orange city lights, with a piece of trouble in his pocket and the ghosts of old theme music playing faintly in his head.