Silas Quinn had two thoughts before everything went sideways.
Sienna lied.
Evan Royce deserves to bleed for it.
Rain dripped off his hood and pooled on the aluminum steps. The Crown Pike's service stair clung to the hotel's backside, a bolted-on stack of metal and rust. Below him, it dropped from the loading dock into the rear alley squeezed between the hotel and the parking deck.
Two hours of prep had soaked him through, but the cold sharpened him. He suppressed a shiver that threatened to turn into a sneeze, pinching the bridge of his nose until the urge passed.
He'd tailed a porter through the loading dock earlier, memorizing the path from laundry cages to the private elevator. Now the dock lights were security-dim and the alley stank of wet cardboard, old fry oil, and lemon detergent breathing from the laundry vent.
The nine-millimeter Riverstone pressed against his ribs beneath the jacket, matte finish still factory-fresh. The Red Crane satchel hung across his chest. It had carried the sushi that proved Sienna's lie. Now it was packed the way he'd rehearsed: extra magazine, rubber gloves, plastic poncho, folded hush-money bill, two protein bars. A duct-taped flashlight rode the strap.
He smeared cheap lip balm across the bubble camera's dome above, hazing the lens to a milky smear. In a puddle at his feet, the reflected alley warped—the left side blown into glare.
Good enough.
He wiped the last of the balm along the stair rail, letting the fake cherry scent vanish into rust and rain.
The service door thrummed every eight seconds as the freight elevator cycled. Eight seconds of vibration through the metal under his boots, three seconds of quiet. He tapped the tread with two fingers, counting the pulse. Eight. Three. Eight. Three.
He dragged an empty soda crate and a soaked recycling bag closer to the locked service gate, building a little barricade to break the lobby camera's line of sight. A chipped coffee cup completed the picture—props for a lazy employee stash.
Another truck rattled past the alley mouth, splashing rain up the curb. The driver glanced over, saw only a hunched courier on break, and dismissed him.
Perfect. The disguise held.
At the alley's mouth, a black sedan idled nose-out toward the street. The driver's silhouette hunched over a glowing phone, face washed blue in the rearview. He never glanced back; to him, Silas was just another courier killing time in the rain.
A housekeeper's cart creaked behind the service door; bleach rode the damp air for three breaths before diesel smothered it.
Silas filed every stimulus because survival was habit. Bruised ribs? Fine. Broken nose? Probably. Baton bruise? Guaranteed. The alternative was living with that penthouse image of infidelity carved behind his eyelids.
Royce was late. Five minutes past swagger. Silas ran contingencies—if Royce stayed upstairs in the penthouse, he'd dump his plan, sell the gun, rent a storage unit just to keep distance between himself and the inevitable fallout.
The freight elevator kept humming. Guards kept lazy watch.
No evacuation, no panic. Just… delay?
The lock rolled back three clicks. Guard silhouettes shifted behind frosted glass. Silas let out a breath, rolled his shoulders, and braced himself. He had one clean line of sight and a single instant to make it matter.
Warm light spilled from the service door. The stocky guard came out first, his baton resting along a veiny forearm. The lean guard followed, nostrils flaring like he smelled trouble under the rain. Evan Royce trailed them in gym shorts and a branded hoodie, steel watch loving the spotlight. Arrogance hung around him like a tailored coat.
Let them see a courier on a break, not a pissed-off boyfriend.
His brain corrected itself without mercy.
Ex-boyfriend.
He slid off the stair, casual as late room service. The stocky guard's palm lifted in polite denial at his approach, the kind that promised broken wrists if he pressed.
Silas stepped through it, gun leaving his jacket in one smooth arc.
"Gun!" the stocky guard barked, even as his hand came up.
The round slammed into Evan's chest just left of the watch, snapping his body into the doorframe under his own momentum. For a heartbeat Evan only stared down, eyes wide, like the blood seeping through his hoodie belonged to someone else.
The guards froze for that same heartbeat—eyes wide, glued to Evan's bloodied hoodie. Out by the alley mouth, the sedan's driver jerked upright behind the glass.
Somewhere up the block a dog went berserk, nails scrabbling on balcony concrete. A light snapped on in a fourth-floor window and then vanished as someone yanked the curtains shut.
Evan's hand clawed at the spreading dark. Fingers came away slick and red. The disbelief on his face curdled into a sound squeezed out between locked teeth—half gasp, half animal noise.
"Ghh—" It tore out of him, wet and stunned, like his lungs didn't quite remember how speech worked.
He staggered, shoulder smashing the door hard enough to rattle the hinges. Air finally forced its way out of his throat as a wet grunt.
"Kill…" The word scraped out raw, barely there. He sucked in a ragged breath, eyes locking on Silas. "Kill that bastard," Evan rasped, voice grinding around pain.
Blood smeared down the hoodie's edge and trickled onto the marble threshold. Silas had a blinking instant to savor the sight of Evan finally leaking something that wasn't money.
The stocky guard reacted first, dropping low and whipping the baton toward Silas's wrist. Silas yanked the pistol back, grazing the man's forearm, and tried to pivot the muzzle toward the guard's throat.
The lean guard vaulted from the private stair's side rail, boots slamming the metal. He landed behind Silas, shoulder driving him into the cold service rail while a glove-clad hand hunted for Silas's gun.
Silas slammed an elbow back. It crunched into ribs and bought him half a breath. He rolled his wrist at the same time, forcing the muzzle outward so the next stray round wouldn't take his own hip.
The sedan's driver flung the rear door wide and folded the seat flat, already moving like this had been drilled. He ducked out, grabbed Evan under the arms, and heaved him into the back. The sedan lurched out of the alley, tires hissing over wet concrete, red taillights gone in seconds.
Rehearsed. Clean. Everyone knew their box step but him, and he was already a beat late.
Gunshots in a wet alley meant sirens for dessert. Pedestrians dialing 911 were free backup for Evan. He needed to end this before uniforms stamped his name into a report.
Silas lunged sideways into the open service door, letting it crack against the lean guard's shin. The stocky guard's baton whistled past his temple and clanged off the rail.
For half a beat the three of them tangled—heels slipping on oily rain as the struggle drifted sideways, the cold stair rail slamming into Silas's thigh, water glare burning his eyes.
Silas slammed his boot heel down on the lean guard's foot and rolled off the rail, buying a sliver of space. The stocky guard recovered, baton carving a blur for his skull. Silas ducked.
The baton smashed the stair rail, spraying rust specks across his cheek. Pain jolted up his knee instead of out through the guard. That's not flesh, Silas realized. These bastards are padded like linebackers.
He drove another elbow back into the lean guard's ribs, then snapped a knee toward the man's thigh. It was like kicking a bollard. Hidden armor.
The stocky guard feinted high, then chopped low. Silas met the metal baton with forearm instead of skull, the impact ringing up into his elbow and leaving his fingers buzzing and numb.
He drove a headbutt forward on instinct. Cartilage crunched. The stocky guard's nose splattered, but the baton stayed in his grip.
Silas double-tapped the stocky guard's chest and watched the man fold backward over the private stair. In Silas's head that meant dead.
The guard groaned instead, armor soaking just enough of the impact to keep him moving.
Not dead. Armor? How many layers are these goons wearing?
The lean guard cleared space, bringing his pistol up. The suppressed muzzle flashed.
The round tore a furrow through Silas's right calf, dumping him to one knee. A raw shout ripped out of him before he could bite it back.
"Aaagh—!"
Being shot didn't feel like the movies. It felt like being hit by a sledgehammer that was also on fire. There goes running, his brain managed.
The second round clipped his left shoulder, spinning him. He screamed once, a strangled burst.
"Ghh—!"
Then he clamped his jaw so hard his teeth clicked. Headlights and rain traded places in his vision. On the steps behind, the stocky guard was already crawling back up, rage and body armor hauling him upright, baton raised.
Hit the arm next and I'm done.
A third shot sparked off the metal railing inches from his ribs, sending hot shrapnel into his side. The noise that came out of him wasn't a word, just a broken, wet sound.
"Nhg—"
Heat flared under the jacket as blood started to pour down his flank. Every breath scraped fire across organs that suddenly felt much too soft and exposed. He's carving me up, a distant part of him noted. Piece by piece.
Pain screamed through his leg, shoulder, and side. The picture of Evan's smug face across a sushi tray that wasn't for him burned hotter. Not here. Not with him still breathing.
Mira will cuff me herself if I bleed out waiting for EMS, his brain hissed, equal parts terror and grim humor.
Silas twisted right, using the motion to drive the lean guard into the loading dock's concrete wall. His ruined calf screamed; his leg nearly went out, but the guard's momentum carried them into the impact. The guard rode the shove, boots sliding, and got his second hand loose on the pistol. Suppressed or not, a nine-mil at this range would end him.
If I drop, Evan walks with more bodyguards next time, his mind screamed. I might not even make it out alive.
Silas chopped at the lean guard's wrist and missed, knuckles scraping the rough doorframe instead. Headlight beams from the street fanned across the alley, turning steam from the laundry vent into a blinding curtain.
He ducked under the frame, throat burning with rain and exhaust.
The stocky guard's baton slammed into the ribs he'd already cracked. Something gave under the jacket with a sharp, wet pop, pain spiderwebbing out while bile and copper fought for his tongue. He swung his pistol up anyway, shoulder a screaming hinge, and fired at the lean guard's gun hand.
The lean guard screamed as the round chewed through his knuckles. The suppressed pistol clattered onto wet concrete and skidded toward the shadows.
"Gun down!" the lean guard barked through clenched teeth, even as blood poured from his ruined hand.
The stocky guard swung the baton like he wanted a skull crack. Silas slammed the Riverstone into the man's chest again and fired point-blank.
The hit shoved the stocky guard back, armor catching the round but not forgiving it. Panic flickered in the man's eyes—vest or not, the pain remained real.
The lean guard dove for his dropped pistol with his off hand. Silas shot him in the chest before he could bring it to bear.
The round thudded into hidden armor. The lean guard grunted, staggered, and fell back against the stair rail, pistol skidding away into the dark under the dock steps. Rain hissed on the metal, turning everything slick.
The lean guard lunged anyway, grabbing Silas and dragging him into a grappling knot. Pain roared through Silas's ruined calf and burning shoulder. The guard's left hand fumbled at his belt for the knife clipped there.
Silas jammed the Riverstone up under the man's chin and fired.
Red sprayed across his face and chest in a hot sheet, splashing the frosted glass of the service door behind the guard's head. Copper flooded his tongue where his mouth had been open, breath ripped out of him. The lean guard went slack all at once, the knife spinning out of his loosening fingers to clatter on the soaked concrete by Silas's knee.
Got one, some stubborn, ugly part of him noted. Still losing on the board.
Something splashed behind him. Silas tried to turn, but a baton smashed into his upper back, right over the ribs he'd already cracked. The blow slammed agony into the broken bone beneath. White noise blanked his hearing as the impact drove him to hands and knees.
He rolled, vision tunneling down to a narrow tube, and saw the stocky guard—still alive, vest blooming purple bruises, blood pouring from a nose broken three times over—raising the baton two-handed.
"Stay down, asshole," the man panted.
The baton hung inches from Silas's face for a frozen instant. Despair cracked the stocky guard's stare as Silas dragged the Riverstone up and fired.
The round took the guard clean through the eye. His body dropped like someone had cut the strings, collapsing half across Silas's legs. The baton slipped from limp fingers and bounced once off Silas's thigh before rolling away into the puddles.
Silas's world narrowed to the rain and the single round left in the magazine. His calf bled into his shoe; shoulder burned; every breath ground broken bone against the fresh hole in his side.
He tried to stand and made it halfway before his knees betrayed him. The weight of the dead guard pinned him down.
Somewhere beyond the alley, a sedan's engine revved—Evan's driver already racing him toward a private trauma bay. Sirens wailed faint and rising.
If uniforms hit this alley now, they'll find a shooter without a target, his thoughts slurred. Evan gets to write the story, and I get to be the monster.
He let himself sink the rest of the way, shoulder and head thumping onto oil-slick concrete.
The world narrowed to a crooked slice of sky between the hotel and the parking deck—a dark strip with no stars, just a couple of blown-out windows staring back at him, faces pale and framed in glass. One of them glowed blue from a phone held to an ear, lips moving fast. Rain fell through that gap in silver threads, needling his face.
His lungs pulled shrapnel instead of air. Blood slicked his palm when he pressed it to the right side of his torso; warmth leaked between his fingers.
Killing the guards had bought him nothing. Evan was already on a table somewhere, getting stitched up by people with better gloves and better lawyers. If sirens turned the corner now, they'd tag the courier with the gun as the villain and let the billionaire's story win by default. He'd lost the war despite winning this alley.
The rain kept coming, a steady weight on his face. His vision frayed at the edges.
Pain screamed—right calf on fire, left shoulder gone bone-deep cold, ribs and right side scraping every time he tried to inhale. His vision pulsed with each heartbeat, breath hitching like broken glass.
The air changed. The smell of diesel and rain vanished, replaced by something cold, dry, and ancient. It smelled like ancient stone that hadn't seen the sun in a thousand years. His breaths were still shallow and ragged—but they stopped getting worse.
Something blinked into existence above him—shards of light arranging themselves in midair like a heads-up display that had escaped a screen. Silas blinked hard, wondering if a concussion had finally decided to get creative.
The shapes held. Lines straightened into glyph strokes—sharp, precise, and completely alien. They weren't letters; they were knife-marks and spirals that made his eyes ache if he stared straight at them.
The ache built fast, a pressure behind his eyes like an icepick migraine. It climbed until he was sure something in his skull would blow. Then, under his unfocused stare, the glyphs twitched, lines collapsing and reforming until they settled into something he could read.
[Enforcer, Void Citadel is opening for you.]
Enforcer? The word didn't fit in his head.
Not courier.
Not ex-boyfriend.
Enforcer.
He lifted a shaking hand and swiped at the floating text. His fingers passed through cold light and wet air, catching nothing. For a second it felt like reaching for stars he'd never touch. He'd once called Sienna his north star. Funny. The only stars left were these fake ones hanging over a crime scene.
Rain fell louder. The hotel guards weren't coming; only distant sirens and the drip of water off the stair. The floating text waited, bright and patient, while the rest of his world slid toward black.
His mind, desperate to stay anchored, grabbed the last few hours and played them back on a loop—midnight sushi, the Red Crane delivery bag, Sienna's message glowing on his lock screen, Evan's smug smile in a robe that wasn't his.
Then the name rolled through him like a cold tide: Void Citadel.
Whatever it was, it pulled him, refusing to let him drift all the way under. Somewhere during that pull, memory rewound all the way to a soaked lobby, a red crane, and a text he'd smiled at before he knew what betrayal tasted like.