Ren wriggled free from that guy’s loose grip. The momentum of the charge and his struggle to break free threw him off balance. He stumbled backward, and his back crashed into something cold and metallic with brutal force. The impact knocked the wind out of him. A metallic clack echoed beside him.
He heard a whistle. Cool, damp air hit his face, laden with the smell of wet asphalt and garbage. He turned. The iron bar he had fallen against was the release mechanism for an emergency door. It was open, just a crack, revealing the black night of an alley.
He acted without hesitation. Without looking back, he made sure the dealer wasn’t recovering. With his shoulder, he pushed the heavy door open and slipped through the gap.
The night swallowed him up. The distant hum of traffic replaced the noise of the casino. A far-off siren sounded through the darkness. He was standing in a narrow, stinking alleyway; the fine, icy rain was wetting his hair. He was out. Free.
He started running. Not knowing where he was going, he just ran. His bare feet splashed through the dirty puddles, the cold of the concrete creeping up his bones. Ren still held the crumpled paper in his fist, a fragile shred of hope. As he ran, his lungs on fire and panic nipping at his heels, a chilling question formed in his mind. He didn’t know what terrified him more: the certainty of belonging to Reznov, or the terrifying uncertainty of this blind flight into the darkness.
Chapter 3
Little by little, the asphalt gave way to a gravel path that tore at the soles of his feet. Ren clenched his teeth and kept running, each stride a new stab of pain, a tiny shard of glass or a sharp stone embedding itself in his tender skin. It started raining more heavily. Like a second skin, the latex clung to his body, offering no defense against the cold that penetrated his core.
Behind him, the casino’s streetlights now stood. Here the lighting was sparse: a solitary lamppost every hundred meters casting anemic pools of yellowish light onto the sidewalk. The industrial zone surrounding the casino—closed warehouses, buildings with rusted metal shutters, empty parking lots—stretched in all directions like an urban wasteland. Not a soul in sight. Only the patter of rain against the metal and his own ragged breathing.
He turned right on instinct, seeking to get away from the primary avenue. If they sent cars to look for him, the headlights would find him in seconds on a straight, open street. He needed cover. Alleys, vegetation, shadows. Anything that would swallow him up.
He ran for what felt like hours, though it was only minutes. Gradually, the scenery underwent a transformation. The warehouses gave way to larger lots, which were eventually succeeded by fenced-in plots bordered by tall hedges. Behindstone walls and wrought-iron gates, the first houses emerged. No, they weren’t houses. Those were states Front yards the size of parks, with manicured lawns and white gravel paths winding up to columned porches. Expensive cars sat in the circular driveway. A few windows glowed on an upper floor, but most of the facades remained dark, impassive, oblivious to the soaked, barefoot figure running past them.
The residential area for those who could afford VIP casino entry. The ones who bid on people.
A cramp bit into his left calf, and Ren came to a screeching halt, doubling over. He rested his hands on his knees. The air stabbed at his throat; each breath was a sharp hiss. His feet were bleeding; he could feel the warm moisture mixing with the rainwater between his toes. His vision blurred for a moment, and he blinked hard, refusing to give in.
He raised his head. To his left, a group of ancient oak trees flanked the entrance to an unlit property. Their crowns intertwined, forming a dense canopy that the rain barely penetrated. Beneath it, the darkness was almost total.
He crawled over there. The overwhelming comfort of being sheltered from the downpour caused him to sag against the broadest tree, releasing a visceral sound that was part sob, part groan. Shut his eyes. Just for a second. Just so the world would stop spinning.
He opened his right fist.
The paper was a mess. Wet, crumpled, the ink smudged at the edges. But the center remained legible in the dim light filtering through the leaves. An address. Street, number. Nothing else. No name, no instructions, no promise.
Ren read it three times, forcing his exhausted brain to process the words.
He recognized it. Or thought he did. He had walked past that street two minutes ago, maybe three. One mansion in this very neighborhood, the one with high walls and obscene gardens. His stomach clenched.
Who was this Rocco? A croupier. Or a man disguised as a croupier. He had slipped him that piece of paper with the precision of a pickpocket and whispered those words—when the lights go out, run—with the calm of someone who knows what’s going to happen. A person who had orchestrated the blackout. Or who at least knew it would happen.
Why help him?
The obvious answer was the worst: he wasn’t helping him. He was redirecting him. From one cage to another. From the casino to a private mansion where no one would hear a thing. Where there would be no cameras, no witnesses, no pretense of a civilized auction. Just thick walls and silence.
His fingers trembled. He smoothed the paper against his thigh, as if the action might reveal some hidden meaning in that cramped handwriting.
But staying here wasn’t an option either. The rain and the darkness protected him, yes. For how long? By now they would have discovered the open emergency door. Reznov had paid seven hundred thousand for him. That kind of money doesn’t just vanish without consequences. They’d send people. People with cars, with flashlights, with dogs. A barefoot, penniless omega running through the streets of a residential area wasn’t invisible.
Reznov. Seven hundred thousand. His.
A chill that had nothing to do with the cold ran down his spine.
He folded the paper with clumsy fingers and tucked it under the sleeve of his overalls, where the warmth of his body might keep it dry. He stood up. His legs gave out for a moment, and he grabbed the oak trunk, the rough bark scraping his already raw palms.
Two options. The direction on the instructions or nothing.
Nothing meant continuing to run, barefoot, soaked, with the omega mark painted on every pore of his skin for any alpha who might cross his path at this hour of the night. No phone. No money. No documents. No one in this city would or could help him.
The address meant trusting a stranger.
Both choices were terrible.
