Viper didn’t soften it. Didn’t dress it up.
“They found a room. Not storage.”
A lesser man might’ve pressed him. Might’ve demanded details. Might’ve pushed back in front of witnesses, ego flaring under chandeliers.
Titus just studied him for a beat—eyes sharp, assessing. Then he nodded once.
No argument. No question.
Alignment.
It clicked into place as cleanly as a weapon seated home.
“Lead,” Titus said—just like that.
With trust.
The music swelled behind them. Glasses clinked. Laughter rolled on—expensive, careless, untouched.
For now.
Viper stepped off, angling toward the service corridor. He crossed the room like he belonged there—which, in a place like this, meant no one questioned him.
Titus fell in beside him, close enough that Viper could feel the shift in his pace, the quiet recalibration. Vale peeled away mid-conversation without missing a beat. Syx drifted wide, eyes up, casual as a shadow.
Hale stayed where he was—attention snagged by Ocean and Aspen.
Good.
The music thinned as they crossed the threshold—strings fading into a muted hum, the bass swallowed by architecture designed to keep secrets. The carpet changed underfoot, plush giving way to something tighter, denser. Practical. No art here. No windows. Just light panels recessed deep enough to avoid shadows.
Law was correct, this part of the house was not on the event map. From the outside, it didn’t even appear to exist.
Viper’s instincts tightened.
The door waited down the back hallway on the left—slightly ajar.
Law stood off to the side, posture rigid, jaw locked. He didn’t speak. Didn’t need to. Sage stood beside him, watchful.
“Lock’s neutralized for future access,” Sage murmured. “But they might reengage it if they use it.”
Viper stopped in front of the door and let his gaze move—reinforced hinges, seams nearly invisible.
Built to last. Built to keep sound in and eyes out.
Using one finger, Viper pushed.
The door opened without a sound.
The room inside wasn’t large—but it was precise.
Too precise.
Beds lined the far wall. Not luxury. Not comfort. Identical frames bolted to the floor, spaced with institutional efficiency. Restraints folded back neatly, unused but ready. On a low shelf sat bins—labeled, color-coded. Medical gloves. Alcohol wipes. IV tubing still sealed in plastic.
Viper didn’t cross the threshold.
He cataloged instead.
