I was already moving before he finished the sentence.
“Where does it go?” I asked sharply.
“Not sure yet,” Henri replied. “Checking it now for security.”
I rounded the corner and spotted him crouched beside a heavy utility door that was half-hidden behind a rolling garment rack. The frame was old and had been painted over multiple times. No exit sign hung above the door.
Henri eased it open with his shoulder. The hinges groaned softly.
It didn’t lead outside.
It opened into another hallway—dimly lit, narrow, with different flooring and cooler air.
Another building—Midtown Performance and Rehearsal Studios.
My heart kicked up in my chest.
“Rory, Julian—get over here,” I ordered. “Henri, let’s go.”
Not waiting for the others, we stepped through the doorway and moved carefully into the adjacent building.
I would bet money she was in here, and I wasn’t about to let her slip away.
We advanced through the quiet corridors of the second building, clearing rooms as we went. This place was acomplex labyrinth—dozens of studios, black box theaters, and long hallways arranged without much logic. The fluorescent lights buzzed overhead, casting greenish shadows against the industrial gray walls. Every footstep, breath, and hinge squeak bounced off the walls.
Henri pulled open a door at the end of the hallway and swept the beam of his flashlight inside. “This is hopeless,” he muttered into the comms. “There’s a million places she could be.”
“She’s here,” I said flatly. “We push forward.”
I could feel it crawling in my skin now—that tension, that certainty. Like a string pulled taut beneath my ribs. Lyla was close. Maybe she could even hear us. Maybe she was hiding, curled up in some prop closet with her hands pressed to her mouth, praying we weren’t cartel.
Suddenly, I heard soft footsteps.
I held up a fist, ordering Henri to halt behind me.
Somewhere further down the hallway, a door creaked open, then slammed shut again.
Henri raised his weapon, but I directed him to lower it with a subtle shake of my head. The footsteps padded closer. Uneven.
And then she stepped into view.
She was walking down the hallway slowly, hands full and eyes focused on what she carried. Hair wrapped in a towel. Barefoot. Oversized T-shirt down to her thighs. One shoulder visible. Her skin looked flushed, as if she had just showered.
And then she saw us.
She froze mid-step. Her eyes locked on mine, stunned and wide as millwheels.
“Lyla,” I said quietly, hands open, voice calm. “It’s okay. You’re safe now.”
She dropped everything and bolted—spun on her heel and ran in the opposite direction, silent but fast.
“Fuck—let’s go!” I snapped, sprinting after her.
She had a head start, and she knew the layout. I turned a corner just in time to see the towel slip from her head and hit the floor behind her. Her wet hair whipped like blonde ribbons as she vanished into another corridor.
I cursed hard, nearly slipping as I took the turn. “Where the fuck did she go?”
“Hell if I know,” Henri panted.
