The look in her eyes isn’t anger or betrayal. It’s judgment.
“You’re the Guildmaster,” she says.
She gestures wide with one arm, encompassing the lockers, the building, the entire situation, while the other remains trained on me. “All of this…”
Voices rise behind her. Too close. Too sudden.
Three women enter the locker room mid-conversation, and Saint pivots instinctively, hiding the gun.
It’s the only opening I’ll get.
I move.
I throw her backpack at her face and bolt.
I shoulder past the women hard enough to knock two of them off balance. They stumble into each other, blocking the doorway just long enough.
Seconds. A few precious seconds. That’s all I need.
I break into the corridor, the rifle bouncing against my back as I run, my pulse loud in my ears.
For now, I’m out of Saint’s crosshairs.
But one thought follows me with absolute certainty as I disappear into the maze of back halls.
Tonight, will change everything.
Night settles over the city like a held breath.
From up here, the summit looks less like an event and more like a ritual. Light spills outward in careful patterns. Music drifts up in soft, engineered waves. Below me, officials and press and world leaders gather in the desert to congratulate themselves on building the tallest thing yet, this one wrapped in the language of salvation. Clean. Renewable. A monument to the future, polished until it shines.
And I am above all of it, watching.
The ledge is wide, mercifully so. More than enough room for me to lie prone if I need to. Behind me, floor-to-ceiling windows reflect the last burn of the Dubai sun as it sinks into amber and then disappears entirely. The glass holds my silhouette for a moment before giving up and turning into nothing but night.
Below, the stage glows.
The auditorium is already filling, rows of seats swallowing bodies, anticipation humming like low voltage. Staff move with practiced ease. Security forms invisible lines thatlook casual until you know how to read them. Cameras perch everywhere, hungry and patient.
The stage is where it will happen.
It has to be.
Hartley is one of the first speakers. He always is. A known quantity. A safe opening act before the heavier hitters take the podium. He’ll come out once everyone’s settled, once the crowd has relaxed into its own importance. When they’re comfortable. When they’re paying attention.
That’s when the shot would land.
A single, precise sound. A gunshot sharp enough to slice through applause and polite laughter. Enough to freeze the room. Enough to guarantee wall-to-wall coverage before the echo even dies.
That’s the message.
I’m not here for Hartley.
I’m here to stop the person who plans to kill him.
I can’t be framed for a murder that doesn’t happen. And more importantly, I won’t allow Alejandro to decide how this ends.
I shift my weight slightly and pull my backpack closer, movements economical, deliberate. The night air is warm, but up here there’s a thin edge to it, just enough to keep me alert. I unzip the bag and begin laying out pieces on the ledge in front of me.
