25/12/2025
Part 11 – Nightclub where no one really wants to be seen
The nightclub sits on a street that pulses: lights, music, queues, taxis.
Inside, a DJ runs the night. Outside, the city does.
The driver gets a job:
Pickup: “Side exit – staff / suppliers”
Time: 02:13
Payment: the same company account as on earlier nights
Note: “Passenger does not use main entrance.”
At the regular taxi rank: young people, high heels, glitter, arguments about who is sober enough to drive.
At the side: a grey door, two smokers, one bouncer staring at the taxi a bit too long.
The door opens.
No drunk clubber. No laughing group. One man in a neat shirt, no coat, no sweat, no shaky smile. Too dry. Too awake.
He walks straight past the smokers and up to the taxi.
“You’re driving for the company,” he says. “The passenger will be out shortly. You stay in the car and say nothing to security.”
“The meter starts when someone gets in,” the driver replies. “Until then, this is just scenery.”
The man doesn’t laugh.
“Scenery is exactly what we need,” he says. “A car that looks normal in a night that isn’t.”
Then someone else steps out.
A young woman. Upright posture. No drink in her hand, no smear of makeup, no unsteady steps. Her eyes don’t search—they go straight to the taxi.
“If anyone asks,” the man says, “you just took a girl from the club home.”
The driver thinks:
If nobody asks, this is no longer a night out.
It is a transfer where nobody officially existed.
To be continued.
⸻
Part 12 – Concert where the music is just background
A few days later, different venue.
Big hall, sold-out show.
Out front: tour buses, taxis, fans singing the last chorus one more time.
Behind the building: a loading dock and three metal doors.
The job:
Pickup: “Artist loading dock”
Payment: the same company account
Note: “Don’t ask who. Just drive.”
The driver knows how tour logistics usually look:
roadies, flight cases, tired-but-happy staff. This is different.
Two men wait by the loading ramp. No band shirts, no earplugs, no backstage passes.
Too neutral for this place.
“You’re early,” one of them says.
“Or everyone else is late,” the driver answers.
“Someone is coming off the stage who wasn’t on the schedule,” the other says. “You’ll take him to a hotel that’s not on the official list. The less you know, the better.”
The door opens.
No artist with sunglasses, no drunk guitarist.
Someone in a hoodie, hands in pockets, head down. Too calm for “just after a show,” too dry for someone who has just passed through a screaming crowd.
He gets in without looking up.
“There’s no destination in the app,” the driver says.
“We drive around,” the man answers. “Until nobody remembers which door I came out of.”
Outside, the crowd screams for an encore.
Inside the taxi, nobody speaks.
In the rear-view mirror, the driver sees a face used to working in the shadows—
now accidentally too close to the light.
This is not a fan. Not an artist. Not security.
This is someone who should never have been on any guest list.
To be continued.
⸻
Part 13 – A “team outing” that isn’t
In daytime, everything looks harmless.
A “team outing,” according to the notes.
Pickup: office.
Destination: “off-site location.”
Dress code: casual.
Voices: just a bit too cheerful.
Four people get in.
Three talk loudly about activities, lunch, team building.
One says almost nothing—the quiet one, holding a bag he never lets go of.
Payment: the same company account.
“We’re going to have a great day,” the manager in the front seat says. “Get away from the daily grind.”
The driver hears it and knows: sometimes “fun” is just packaging.
“We’ll have one extra stop on the way back,” the manager adds. “A colleague joining later. You’ll get the address in the app.”
The day plays out like a textbook outing:
– ropes course
– laughing group photos
– a lunch nobody really tastes
Only on the way back does it tilt.
The extra stop appears:
a small local station, in a village where the driver has never had a corporate booking.
“We’ll get out for a moment, he’ll join,” the manager says.
Nobody is on the platform.
Until the train leaves.
Then someone is.
No suitcase. No coat. Just an envelope and the look of someone whose biggest worry is not the timetable.
He gets straight into the taxi.
“This outing was never on the agenda,” he says quietly. “Not in HR, not in the board calendar, not in any committee minutes.”
But it is in the system, the driver thinks.
Under the same account as the nightclub, the hotel, the after-hours museum.
Some “days out” are not rewards.
They are turning points.
To be continued.
⸻
Part 14 – Wedding night with an empty chair
Weddings are supposed to be simple.
Two people, one “I do,” a venue, music, photos.
Taxis usually appear at the very end, when everyone’s tired.
Not this time.
The job comes in early:
Pickup: wedding venue
Time: directly after the ceremony
Note: “Do not wait until the party starts.”
Payment: the same company account.
The venue looks like a magazine spread: ribbons, flowers, smiling guests, children carrying rings.
One chair is empty. The witness’s.
The driver is instructed to wait at the side of the building, “for suppliers only.”
He knows that zone by now: everything people don’t want in the photo happens at the supplier entrance.
The side door opens.
Not the bride. Not the groom.
The missing witness.
No tissue from the ceremony, no champagne glass. Just a folder and eyes that have seen too much in the weeks before the wedding.
“You’re not taking me home,” he says. “You’re taking me to an address only the accountant and I know.”
Team outing, concert, nightclub, the driver thinks.
Now a wedding.
Always the same account. Always a different wrapper.
“If anyone asks why I’m gone,” the witness says, “you say you never saw me.”
“That would be untrue,” the driver says. “I see you very clearly.”
“That’s exactly the problem,” the man replies.
Some nights, an empty chair just means someone missed a train.
Other nights, an empty chair is the start of a story that will never appear in the wedding video.
To be continued.
⸻
Part 15 – Birth in a quiet street
Some jobs are simple and sharp:
“Hospital. Now.”
No questions, just urgency.
This one starts differently.
Pickup: quiet residential street
Time: 03:41
Note: “No use of sirens. No official incident log.”
Payment: the same company account.
The driver expects a drunk neighbour, an argument, perhaps someone in distress.
Instead, a man walks out carrying a blanket in his arms.
No suitcase, no hospital bag, no car seat.
“We need to go to the hospital,” he says softly. “But not through the emergency entrance. Not through the usual door. Nothing must be recorded that hasn’t already been… agreed.”
Behind him, a woman follows. Pale, but clear.
“Don’t let this scare you,” she says. “It’s a normal birth in an abnormal situation. The file is more complicated than the baby.”
On the back seat, a tiny sound.
People who think danger always shouts have never listened to what happens between breath and silence.
“Why this account?” the driver asks quietly. “This isn’t a corporate matter.”
“For you, it’s a ride,” the man says. “For us, it’s the difference between a child that appears as a ‘case’ and a child that is simply allowed to exist.”
The driver says nothing.
He chooses a route with lampposts and cameras. Not to betray them, but to make sure nobody can later claim this child “never existed anywhere.”
Some files are about fraud, power, leverage.
Others are about who even gets the right to be visible.
The meter runs.
The night breathes.
The story is nowhere near finished.
To be continued.
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