A few hours earlier—just after midnight—Silas Quinn was running on the kind of shift that made grown adults question their life choices.
Rain hammered Pike Street. Dale's whistle voice still rang in his ear while Crown Pike Hotel demanded midnight sushi.
He ran across Pike Street with a Red Crane Delivery satchel beating against his hip. He'd swapped shifts for this run—traded a quiet Tuesday for this midnight nightmare because the manifest listed Evan Royce in Suite 2008.
For weeks, Sienna had been coming home late from the gallery. Once, she'd mentioned an "art connoisseur" named Evan Royce—how he had "exquisite taste" and made her feel "seen." She never mentioned him again. But the late nights continued, and sometimes she stayed overnight, claiming work.
Tonight, the manifest had his name. Silas had to know.
The moment he slipped through the revolving door, his headset lit up with righteous fury.
A lobby camera's red LED winked above him, recording every soaked step.
"How dare you delay Mr. Royce's delivery! You're getting fired if this happens again."
Dale sounded like a call center had put on anger as a cologne. Silas kept his tone even while the elevator swallowed him and his drenched hoodie.
"Traffic on Pike," he said, breathing like a guy who'd just beat foreclosure. "Won't happen again."
"Less excuses, more delivery. Fix your mask. That's your last warning."
The line died. The elevator buzzed. Silas yanked his black mask up, straightened the red origami crane on his cap, and watched floor numbers flick upward. Seventeen. Eighteen. Nineteen.
Rain trickled off his jaw. One bad night, and they hang me by the branded apron.
Floor twenty spilled him into a hallway that shouted money in hushed tones.
Navy-striped runner, cream walls, brass wall lights. The air smelled like money and warm citrus.
Suite 2008 sat open, guarded by men in suits A and B, complete with earbuds and the kind of polite blank faces that meant their dental plan was better than his rent.
One was built like a battering ram with a baton strapped to his thigh, the other lean with a gloved hand parked near the jacket hem hiding his sidearm.
Baton guy's jaw worked gum; lean shooter's gaze flicked ceiling corners, counting cameras like a habit.
Cold air from the suite bled into the hall, ruffling the soaked fabric at his wrists; every shift of the guards' shoulders creaked leather and cheap cologne.
Because nothing screams privacy like hiring two linebackers to watch your suite.
Silas kept the sushi tray level, tapped the frame with his knuckles, and braced for whatever rich-person version of gratitude lived here. Fingers whitened on the sushi box.
Designer smug look answered.
Evan Royce wore gym shorts and a hotel robe like he carried sponsorship deals for both. His beard looked like it had a personal stylist.
A steel watch flared under the lights, mostly to make sure everyone noticed he could buy the entire Red Crane franchise on a Tuesday.
"Right on time," Evan said, because the universe enjoyed irony. He plucked the tray free. "Tip him."
The stockier guard pressed a crisp bill into Silas's palm. It was heavy in the way that said "hush money but make it classy."
Silas's eyes drifted past Evan because the universe hated him enough to demand confirmation.
Inside, champagne beaded with sweat in a silver bucket. A hotel robe hung over a chair like it had survived a long day.
A woman stood near the bed wearing a scarlet lace set that left little to imagination and was probably meant to slay. Silas could confirm it succeeded.
Her hip angled toward the door, displaying a black half-moon crest tattoo he had saved tip money to pay for. Track lighting gleamed off the ink; chilled air from the vent raised goosebumps along his soaked forearms.
Sound collapsed into a white hiss behind his ears. His stomach lurched like an elevator that stopped between floors.
Of course it's Sienna.
Apparently infidelity had a lace dress code, and she came prepared.
I could call the cops. And say what? "My girlfriend cheated, arrest the millionaire"? I could confront her. She'd lie. I could walk away. Spend the rest of my life knowing I did nothing.
His mind snapped, tap-dancing between heartbreak and felony. He chose the only option that felt real.
He logged the threats: baton guy at the door, the lean shooter hovering nearby, one camera in the corner—reflexive habit of not dying on the job.
If he lunged, the camera made him the aggressor; Dale would fire him; Mira would arrest him on principle.
The words in his head were simple.
Don't. Make. A. Scene. Live long enough to decide what to do.
He slid the bill into his pocket without looking, nodded at the guards. His knuckles rasped the door frame on the way out; baton guy shifted to block the entrance, making sure he kept going.
The door closed with a soft hush. The latch clicked. The guards resumed statue mode with smug professionalism.
The elevator arrived with a ding that felt personal. A couple in evening wear praised tasting menus while Silas watched the floor numbers fall. Twenty. Nineteen. Eighteen.
Each ding banged against the memory of splitting a single dessert with Sienna at the waterfront diner because it was either that or rent.
By the time the lobby doors parted and cold rain punched him in the face, the tightness in his chest had split into manageable shards.
He pulled down his mask, rubbed warmth into the delivery slip, and stared at the text still sitting on his lock screen.
The lobby camera behind him whirred as the lens re-centered; even the building wanted a record in case he detonated.
Almost done at the art gallery. Save me a plate?
He had smiled at that message an hour ago. Now it felt like chewing glass. Maybe she had typed it while straightening her hair in observation of the penthouse lighting.
He'd been suspicious for weeks. Tonight the universe handed him a bloody confirmation signed in red lace.
[POV: Sienna Hart]
Sienna Hart set a champagne flute on the suite's marble counter and watched the door ease shut. The guards took up positions outside. Evan vanished toward the bathroom, humming something that probably charted in playlists titled "Monaco Rooftop."
The AC breathed cold air over damp skin; goosebumps raced up her arms.
She flipped open a sushi container, the neat rows glowing under track lighting. "Finally," she said. "Let's not let it sit too long."
Evan checked that absurd watch. "Relax. We have the night."
Sienna let out a breath.
Pike couriers all blended—hoodies, caps, soaked masks—but the set of the shoulders on this one nagged her.
She shook it off, pressing her spine against marble.
She pictured his one-room apartment: cracked window sealed with duct tape, couch held together by nostalgia, ramen cups stacked like modern art.
She'd spent entire evenings perched on that couch waiting for him to drag himself home from double shifts smelling of rain and exhaust.
Now she stood on thick carpet with champagne bubbles assaulting her nose.
If Evan decided he was bored, she would lose the comped suite, the gifts, the illusion of safety.
If the courier was Silas and had recognized her and made a scene, security would have buried her under nondisclosure threats before tossing her out.
She pressed the half-moon tattoo on her hip—stupid, sentimental habit. The ink had been a promise: We're in this together. Apparently "together" had an expiration date.
She told herself she deserved something easier than waiting up while Silas dodged traffic for tips. The part of her that still sounded like Silas called it a lie. She drowned the thought with a gulp of champagne.
[POV: Silas Quinn]
Silas let the rain drown the last of Dale's voice as he walked toward Pike. Every street lamp threw his reflection back at him: hoodie soaked, cap crooked, eyes burning holes in the pavement.
He crossed to Third Rail Coffee, the one place open after midnight that didn't require a second mortgage. His shoes creaked on tile. The barista barely glanced up; he knew this rain-soaked regular.
"Large drip, two sugars, extra shot," he said, the order he'd worded a thousand times. His fingers left damp circles on the counter.
The news on the wall screen played back footage of a courier van riddled with holes. Rainier Avenue shooting… driver pronounced dead on scene… suspects still at large. Silas's stomach went cold.
Another courier. Different company, same city. He peeled a twenty from the bribe Evan's guard had slid him. "Keep the change."
He carried the cup to his usual corner table and let it sit untouched. Outside, rain hammered the canopy. He dialed the only number in his favorites labeled "Mira — don't wake unless dying."
The call was picked up on the second ring, which meant she was still at her desk, probably elbow-deep in homicide paperwork.
If anyone could put cuffs on him for throwing a punch in a penthouse, it was Mira; he needed the warning label from her before he torched his life.
"Please say you're not calling from a pool of your own blood," Detective Mira Vyas said over the hiss of police dispatch.
Silas stood under the canopy and watched the city smear beyond the rain. "Define bleeding."
"Silas." She loaded two syllables with full warning-label energy.
He let out a breath. "Ran a delivery to the Crown Pike. Walked in on Evan Royce hand-feeding Sienna. Two guards, camera, full betrayal package."
A pause later, "Do I need to put out a BOLO for your sanity?"
"Not yet." He pushed wet hair off his forehead. "You're the one who keeps telling me to verify the gut feeling."
"I meant by talking, not by stalking a man worth eight penthouse rooms." Papers shuffled on Mira's end.
"Do not do anything stupid. I just got a bulletin about a delivery guy shot on Rainier. Same night. Don't be the sequel."
Silas glanced down at the untouched coffee sitting on his own table. "You telling me to walk away?"
"I'm telling you to breathe, go home, sleep, and let your brain catch up before you do something that makes me write a report."
He wanted to say yes. He wanted to promise he'd curl up on his sagging couch and practice emotional maturity. Instead he said, "Thanks for answering," because he could lie about his plans but not to Mira.
He ended the call, let the phone hang by his side, and left the coffee cooling on the table as a donation to the tired.
He didn't have a plan yet, but he had a target and a city that had just given him permission to be angry.
No sleep. Tonight I bang on Caleb Porter's after-hours door, get the nine-mil I've been putting off, and be in the Crown Pike alley before dawn.
An hour later—still deep night, storming gutters—he slipped south toward SoDo. Porter Gunsmith & Repair sat dark between a closed locksmith and a mural that claimed the Mariners would rise again any day now.
The front sign read CLOSED, but a crack of light at the back door said Caleb was still up.
Caleb Porter looked up from a spotless work table, sleep creasing his cheek, when Silas banged through the rear door. Caleb had the build of a one-time linebacker and the temperament of a cautious accountant.
He wiped a hand down his face, jaw clicking awake. Caleb knew Silas through Mira—the detective had vouched for the kid years ago, and Caleb respected Mira enough to open the door.
The bell above the door hadn't finished ringing before he slid a ceramic mug across the counter.
Gun oil and old coffee hung in the warm air; rain ticked off the metal roof.
"Storm got louder," Caleb said, which was his way of saying you look like hell.
Silas wrapped his hands around the mug until the ceramic warmed his knuckles. "Need to pick up the Riverstone nine-mil piece."
Caleb's brows ticked. "Paperwork's ready. You sure you're not just mad enough to do something dumb?"
"Mad enough," Silas said, "and not dumb enough to go in unarmed." The pen quivered against the paper when he took it.
Caleb nodded like he appreciated the honesty and pulled a form from the drawer. "Respect the tool, respect people. Sign here, initial there. You read about the Rainier courier?" Caleb pushed the form over, index finger on the signature line.
Serials and ballistics will sing your name if you pull this trigger, the unspoken part read.
""Yeah." Silas scrawled his name, pulse ticking in his wrist. Using hush money to buy a gun—nice karma, his brain needled.
"You think it's connected?"
"I think people get shot when they ignore safety drills." Caleb slid the Riverstone C9 Compact across the counter.
Matte black, seven inches nose to tail, four-inch barrel; the kind of nine-millimeter piece that fit a city fight without making a scene.
The metal felt colder than the rain outside. "You fire something like it?"
"On the range. Three times. Didn't miss."
Caleb's mouth jerked. "Good. Keep it dry. Rain like this wears away idiots." He glanced at the security camera over the door—a polite reminder the footage would outlive them both.
Silas counted out cash—tip money, guilt money, whatever story he needed to tell himself.
Caleb watched it vanish into the register, then bagged a box of ammo and a cleaning kit like an indulgent uncle who secretly feared his nephew's life choices.
"Anything else before you go playing vigilante?" Caleb asked. His jaw bunched, molars carving the question into a warning.
Silas slung the satchel over his shoulder. The Riverstone's weight settled against his ribs. "Yeah. Need a city that minds its own business." He managed half a smile. Caleb didn't try to talk him out of it.
That was why Silas trusted him, even when the camera over the door stared like a future witness.
He left the shop with the satchel tight under his arm. Rain had downgraded from Biblical to Merely Miserable. Neon from a pawn shop blinked across puddles.
His brain finally stopped playing back the moment in the suite and moved on to quiet, lethal planning.
If I miss, I'm the Rainier headline. If I hit, I'm the guy ballistics will hunt. Rainier was a van; Crown Pike was cameras and Royce's lawyers. Different blocks, same ending.
The courier dies.
He walked past the rail yard, and curved toward the waterfront. Sienna's text beeped again—Still at the art gallery, promise. ♥ The gall almost made him laugh.
He muted the conversation instead.
He reached his apartment and the old brick building's floorboards creaked under soaked socks. He let himself in, tossed the soaked hoodie over a chair, and laid the Riverstone on the coffee table.
Damp fabric clung to his skin; the heater ticked like a countdown.
The gun shone under the weak lamp like a promise he had not decided how to keep.
He showered, dressed in dry clothes, and sat on the couch with the satchel strap wrapped around his hand. The Riverstone waited on the table. His other hand shook until he fisted it in the strap.
Two choices. Sleep it off. Or follow through.
He imagined Evan's smug face, Sienna's lie, and the guards who had not even considered him a threat—and Mira reading him his rights if he slipped.
He sat there long enough for the coffee table light to burn a square into his vision. Killing a man was a line he'd mocked on TV, not one he crossed.
Every anti-hero on TV had hesitated, he reminded himself. So did every decent person before they stopped being decent. And every decent person risked handcuffs if they carried the wrong tool into the wrong camera's view.
A minute later, the tremor stopped. He knew what he was going to do.
He stood, slid the nine-mil piece into an inside holster, and checked the satchel: extra magazine, rubber gloves, a folded plastic poncho, two protein bars, the bill from the guard folded into a tiny provocation. A cheap flashlight waited on the table, ready to be duct-taped to the strap.
Outside, rain battered the window; freight horns moaned somewhere beyond the industrial district.
The city whispered that decent people stayed home. Silas decided he was done being decent. He pictured Evan's blood steaming on wet concrete while those guards slipped in it—and the camera domes filming whichever way this went.
He killed the apartment lights, stepped into the hallway, and locked the door. The Riverstone's weight centered him. Outside, Seattle shone with neon and rain.
Silas pulled up his hood, set his pace toward downtown, and let the anger resolve into something cold and precise.
Evan Royce was still breathing. Silas intended to fix that.