Clubsweethearts 22 12 31 Olivia Trunk And Funky... -

“That’s why I’m here,” Olivia said.

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.”

Funky took a long drag of his vape. “What is it?”

“That’s the ghost set,” said Roman, the barback, not looking up from polishing a coupe glass. “No one’s played it since ‘99.”

At 11:47, Olivia took the mic. She never did that.

He smiled. It was the first time in twenty-three years.

The dance floor froze for one full bar. Then it exploded.

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.

The club’s heart was a sunken dance floor, ringed by mirrored panels and a booth that looked like a crashed UFO. Behind the decks stood the only DJ they could book for this night: a rotating resident known only as . He was tall, quiet, wore broken headphones, and played with the precision of a safecracker. His real name was a mystery. His smile was rarer than a clean white label.

“Welcome home, Janus,” she whispered.

Olivia watched Funky’s hands. He wasn’t mixing anymore. He was just letting the tape run, his eyes closed, his chest rising and falling with the kick drum. When the breakdown hit—a cascade of broken piano chords and a sample of rain on a payphone—he opened his eyes and looked directly at her.

ClubSweethearts: Neon Overture

Olivia didn’t say I know . She just nodded.