15
JUSTIN
Rowan Hale is not the only one who knows how to be anonymous.
The girl is relentless. Curious. And far too pushy for her own good.
When Miguel called to tell me about a woman who kept showing up night after night, testing the door like it might eventually give in, I almost ignored it. The Slay Pen attracts that type—hopefuls, thrill-seekers, people who think persistence will eventually get them over the threshold. Not likely, but one can hope.
Something in his description of the girl snagged my attention.
Blonde hair. Nervous smile. The unmistakable sense that she doesn’t belong here.
That detail stuck. Because there’s a girl I know who fits that description to a tee.
So tonight, I make an appearance. Not because I need to—but because I want to see her for myself. To confirm it’s the same woman I’m thinking of. To find out what she’s chasing… or what she’s looking for.
Miguel calls the moment she approaches the door, his voice low as he tells me she’s been let inside—mask and all. I stay where I am, waiting for her to come into view. From the balcony, the club opens below me like a wound that never healed. Smoke coils through fractured light, wrapping around bodies moving slow to a bassline that feels like sin with a heartbeat.
Then she appears.
Even with the mask on, she’s impossible to miss. Wide-eyed. Hesitant. She has no idea what to expect or what she’ll find. She’s standing at the threshold like she’s waiting for permission to breathe before she moves further into the room.
Her hair catches the light—blonde waves falling over her shoulders, soft where everything else in this room is sharp. Her dress fits too close, like it’s holding a secret it refuses to share. Every line of her body draws the eye, but she wears it like armor that doesn’t quite fit.
She shouldn’t be here. She knows it. Every nervous movement gives her away—fingers tightening around her clutch, chin lifting when she remembers she’s supposed to be brave.
And still… I can’t look anywhere else.
Because she doesn’t look anything like the other women here tonight. The others are polished, practiced—born into darkness and affluence. She’s full of fear and curiosity. Light trespassing in a place that devours it.
My jaw flexes beneath my mask. The sound system hums. From up here, the pulse of the crowd looks almost ritualistic—every beat another offering.
Then she makes her first mistake.
She pulls out her phone.
There’s one quick movement. One flash.
Which is a rookie move that cements the assumption that she doesn’t belong here.
Heads turn toward her like hounds scenting blood. My menmove faster than thought—two of them sliding off the wall, cutting through the crowd. They’re efficient, trained, and about to make a mistake of their own.
I press the comm at my wrist.
“Stand down.”
They hesitate.
The taller one leans toward her anyway, smiling in that way men do when they’re trying to intimidate a woman.
“Now,” I say, voice low.
They freeze. She doesn’t even realize she’s just been spared.
I watch her shift in place, scanning exits, chest rising fast. Fear suits her—it sharpens her, makes her look alive in a room full of darkness.
Below, my men back off after she rushes to the nearest exit. I let them sweat a little before I key the comm again.
