Titus moved first, pace unhurried, shoulders loose, the knife at his thigh steady as a heartbeat. His Ruger SR1911 rode low in his grip, heavy and deliberate, eight rounds of quiet promise seated and ready—no wasted motion, no hesitation.
The estate around them had gone quiet. Whatever music or laughter had filled it earlier was long gone, replaced by the hollow stillness of early morning—staff reduced to ghosts, security half-asleep in routines built on the assumption nothing ever went wrong. In this hallway, the air was cooler, flatter, stripped of pretense.
Walls narrowed. Lighting was a bit dulled. This was the kind of space built for people who weren’t meant to be seen.
Vale ghosted at his shoulder.
“Are we taking names?” Vale murmured, voice barely there.
Titus gave a flat stare. “No.”
Vale huffed once, grim. “Fair enough.”
Titus slowed at the turn, eyes tracking everything. “This is where they’d put them,” he said. “Money hides its worst sins in backrooms.”
Vale’s jaw tightened. He didn’t argue.
They stopped at the door—industrial, unmarked, the card reader dark.
Titus didn’t hesitate. He wrapped his hand around the handle and turned it. The lock gave without protest, exactly as Sage had promised it would.
Apparently, they hadn’t bothered re-engaging the lock—either confident they wouldn’t be caught or fucking stupid. Probably both.
Vale watched the door open, jaw tightening, already shifting his weight.
No alarms. No resistance.
Titus stepped through.
The smell hit first—fear, sweat, something sweet and rotten beneath it. Then the sound: a sharp, swallowed breath. A whimper cut short.
Young girls.
Six of them, some too young to even understand what the fuck was happening.
Huddled together on the far side of the room, knees drawn to chests, eyes wide and glassy with terror. Bare feet on carpet. Wrists marked. Faces too still.
Titus felt it lock in his chest—not heat, not panic.
Something colder. Cleaner.
Judgment.
Two men were in the room. One leaned back in a chair, cigarette ember glowing as he turned, surprise flickering across his face. The other stood near a table Titus refused to catalog.
Vale moved.
A blur of motion—knife flashing once, low and efficient. The standing man folded without a sound, surprise dying before it could become pain.
The seated man started to rise.
Titus shot him.
Snick.
Once. Center mass. The body jerked, the chair clattering back. The man tried to speak. Titus stepped in and fired two more times for good measure.
Snick. Snick.
