Funky picked up the tape. His thumb traced the date. 22 12 31. Twenty-second of December, ’31? No—22nd hour, 12th minute, 31st second. A timestamp. The exact moment Janus had supposedly walked out of the studio and never returned.
“Welcome home, Janus,” she whispered. ClubSweethearts 22 12 31 Olivia Trunk And Funky...
“You want me to drop a curse on the dance floor,” Funky said. But he was already cueing up track three. Funky picked up the tape
The crowd downstairs had no idea. They were a glittering herd of last-chance romantics, post-ironic ravers, and a few genuine sweethearts who’d met at ClubSweethearts a decade ago and still came every New Year’s Eve. They danced to deep house, broken beat, and something Funky called “sloppy techno for sad robots.” ’31? No—22nd hour