The stairwell. The confession. Meeting Marcus for the first time in Dom’s office while I dissociated hard enough to perform like my life depended on it.
Because it did.
Walking through the lobby feels wrong. Familiar and foreign at the same time. Like coming home to a house that was never really yours.
Sharon looks up from reception. Her face does something complicated when she sees me. She mouths something—looks like “Dom’s office” or maybe “be careful”—then glances toward the security camera.
She can’t warn me. Not out loud. Not here.
Just nods.
“Dylan.”
“Sharon.”
That’s it. That’s the whole exchange.
But I feel her watching me as I head to the elevator. Feel the weight of whatever she’s not saying pressing against my spine.
Sharon’s been here twenty years. Survived Dom longer than anyone. Knows where all the bodies are buried—literally, probably. And even she can’t help me. Can only watch me walk into whatever’s waiting upstairs. Can only mouth warnings she knows I can’t act on.
If Sharon’s scared for me, I should be terrified.
The elevator takes forever. I consider the stairs—they’re right there, the emergency exit, the same stairs I used to take all the time—but I can’t.
The elevator dings. I step in. Hit the button for the fourth floor.
Dom’s floor.
My body’s warning bells begin to chime. The serpent at the base of my spine start to coil. Not the full warning system from when Marcus ambushed me outside our apartment. Just the preliminary alert.
Thesomething’s wrong,sensor activating.
Fourth floor. The doors open.
I step out into Dom’s hallway. Thick carpet. Dark wood. The kind of old-money aesthetic that screams power and precedent and we’ve been here longer than you’ve been alive.
Each step toward his office feels heavier than the last.
My heels sink into the carpet. My throat starts to tighten. The ring gets hotter.
I reach his door. Knock twice.
“Come in.”
I open the door.
And freeze.
Marcus is already there.
Standing by the window. Backlit by gray February light. Wearing one of his suits—navy pinstripe, expensive, the kind that costs more than my monthly rent. Hair styled perfectly. He smiles when he sees me. Wide. Wrong.
“There she is.”
He moves toward the door. Toward me. Too close. Always too close.
I sidestep him. Fast. Automatic. Put the bookshelf at my back and the desk between us.
