I dress quickly—jeans, shirt, boots. My knee aches when I stand, but I ignore it.
Sting and Rogue are already waiting by the door, coats on, expressions unreadable.
We move through the Rot in silence. Corridors Irecognize, then ones I don’t. Stairwells that go up instead of down. The air gets colder. Cleaner.
Then I see it. A door. Heavy. Metal. Marked with old exit signs.
My breath catches.
Armen pushes it open.
I step through, blinking against the brightness. “Where are we going?” I ask.
Armen’s hand finds my waist—firm, grounding. “Somewhere you need to see.”
We walk through empty streets. Rogue keeps watch behind us. Sting leads. No one speaks. Then we stop in front of a building. Nondescript. Old brick. Barred windows. A door with no sign. Sting knocks. A panel slides open. Eyes peer through. Then the door opens.
Music thrums from inside followed by laughter, and I get a glimpse of low, pulsing, red lights. The smell of incense and weed.
The music thrums louder. The lights pulse. Bodies move in the shadows, writhing, claiming, watched.
I should be terrified.
Instead, I’m leaning forward.
EPILOGUE
The music gets louderthe deeper we go.
Not jarring, just constant. A low, pulsing beat that vibrates through the floor, up through my boots, settling in my chest like a second heartbeat. The hallway is narrow, walls painted deep red, lit by dim bulbs that cast everything in shadow. Doors line both sides, some closed, some cracked open just enough to see movement inside.
I catch glimpses as we pass.
Bodies. Skin. Mouths. Hands.
My pulse kicks.
Armen’s hand is firm on my lower back, both possessive and protective. Sting walks ahead, shoulders squared, scanning each door we pass. Rogue brings up the rear, close enough I can feel his heat.
We stop at a door near the end of the hall. Unmarked. No window. Just solid wood and a heavy brass handle.
Sting opens it.
The room beyond is small but thoughtfully outfitted. A low couch against one wall, deep-red fabric worn soft.A table with a single lamp, casting warm gold across the space. Bottles of drinking water. Clean towels folded neatly. And along the far wall?—
Glass.
Floor-to-ceiling glass that looks into another room.
No. Not a room.
A stage.
My breath catches.
Beyond the glass, the space opens wide, high ceiling, dim lighting, a raised platform in the center. And around it, scattered in the shadows, people. Sitting. Standing. Watching.
Waiting.
