Laughter ripples, thin and polite.
The room obeys.
Hartley disappears through the doors, surrounded and protected, exactly where I didn’t want him to go. Someone just got a clean read on response time and crowd control. And Alejandro made sure of it.
Staff usher me toward the kitchen with the rest, momentum doing the work of force. I let it carry me because resisting would only draw attention, and attention is a luxury I can’t afford right now.
As I pass Alejandro, helping mop up the mess he created, he looks up at me.
His expression isn’t pain or regret. It’s calculation.
And in that instant, the question answers itself.
He didn’t just stop me.
He’s involved.
They don’t ask.
Security doesn’t argue. Management doesn’t debate. I’m redirected with firm hands and polite urgency, steered away from linen and champagne and money like I’m a stain that needs to be scrubbed out before it sets.
“Back of house,” someone says. “Please.”
I let them push me.
The double doors swing shut behind me, cutting off the noise of the brunch, the clink of glass, the low murmur of powerful men pretending they aren’t edible. The hallway is narrower here, colder, all concrete and stainless steel and utility lighting that doesn’t flatter anyone.
My pulse is still ticking to the rhythm of breaking glass.
The sound replays on a loop. The timing. The precision. The way Alejandro just looked at me when it happened.
The flip phone buzzes in my pocket once. I pull it out without stopping, screen shielded against my palm.
GRIM: Deleted files incoming.
Of course it’s now.
I close the phone and scan the corridor, already anticipating Alejandro’s footsteps behind me. The inevitable attempt at damage control. The calm voice. The reasonable explanation designed to slow me down just enough for him to get ahead of me again.
Well, I’m not giving him the chance. I need to see what this is before anyone can shape the narrative around it.
The walk-in is in the middle of the kitchen’s side wall, marked with a fading label and a dented handle. I grab it, slip inside, and pull the door shut behind me.
The cold hits instantly. Sharp and clean and absolute.
Metal shelves line the walls, stacked with produce, seafood, wrapped trays of things that once lived. The hum of the refrigeration unit is constant, steady, indifferent. The kind of sound that makes it easy to think.
I text Grim back withnumb fingers.
SAINT: Send them.
The files load slowly, bars creeping across the screen like they’re enjoying this.
Two images appear.
Both black and white.
Both grainy. Low resolution. They’re security footage, not photographs. The kind of images that are never meant for anything except evidence or blackmail.
