She quickly found a male staff member—Mike, from logistics—unlocking a supply closet near the service elevator. She tapped his shoulder urgently.
"Mike, please. I need a set of men's clothes. Big size. This size," she said, holding her hands apart to approximate Zeke's broad shoulders. "If possible, a white shirt. Do you have any?"
Mike turned, his expression shifting from routine to confusion. "Jenny? What are you doing up here? I thought you were assigned to the third floor lounge tonight."
"I was… re-assigned. Sent to the 24th floor to assist Mr.—" she cut herself off, shaking her head. "That's not necessary now, Mike. I really need these clothes. Please."
Mike looked at her—really looked—taking in her unusual silver gown, her slightly breathless panic, and the determined gleam in her eyes. This wasn't the calm, observant Jenny he knew from briefings.
"Fine," he said after a tense pause. "Wait here. I'm coming."
He ducked into the supply room, leaving Jenny in the hall. She clasped her hands tightly, straining to listen for any approaching footsteps—from security, or worse, from the penthouse. Every second stretched like a wire.
When Mike reappeared, he held a sealed plastic garment bag. Inside was a crisp, premium white dress shirt, still in its packaging, and a pair of tailored black trousers.
"Best I can do on short notice," he said quietly, handing it over. "Jenny… whatever you're mixed up in… be careful. Things have been tense since the Men in Black started making moves."
She met his eyes, offering a quick, grateful nod—no time for explanations. Clutching the garment bag, she turned and hurried back toward the elevators, her mind already racing through her next move: returning to the penthouse before Zeke's patience—or his suspicion—ran out.
She took the clothes and offered Mike a final, hurried thank you before rushing back to the elevator. The ride up felt longer this time, the silence pressing in on her. She rehearsed her lines under her breath, her voice a frantic whisper in the polished brass interior.
"Mr. Black, I'm so sorry… I didn't know it was you… I've brought a change of clothes…"
She paced the small space, smoothing the plastic of the garment bag with nervous hands. The elevator dinged, and the doors slid open onto the penthouse hallway.
It was unexpectedly, unnervingly quiet.
Jenny stepped out, her heels sinking into the plush carpet without a sound. She looked down the long, empty corridor, her senses on high alert. The air felt still and watchful. Moving slowly, she approached the restroom door.
She knocked once. A soft, tentative rap.
Then twice. A little firmer.
No response.
"Mr. Black?" she called, her voice echoing slightly in the hushed space. She kept knocking, the rhythm growing more urgent. "Are you in there? I'm here with your clothes."
Silence.
Her pulse quickened. She tried the door handle. It turned smoothly, unlocked.
Pushing the door open slowly, she peered inside. The spacious, marble restroom was empty. The only signs of life were a damp spot on the counter where water had splashed and the discarded, sodden jacket of Zeke Black, neatly draped over the back of a chair.
He was gone.
A cold ripple of understanding washed over her. He hadn't waited. He hadn't believed her clumsy story for a second. The quiet hallway wasn't peaceful—it was a vacuum, the calm after his departure. And she was now standing alone in the heart of his domain, holding a change of clothes for a man who had already vanished, likely to dig into exactly who she was.
The game had changed. He was no longer just a target; he was hunting her back.
She needed to find him. The thought was a sharp, determined drill in her mind. Jenny quickly returned to the elevator and pressed the button for the 24th floor. He can't have gone far. He will likely be on the 24th floor, she reasoned, her logic fraying at the edges. Maybe I missed him.
The doors opened, and she stepped out, her eyes scanning the corridor. She moved with purpose, peeking into open conference rooms, her posture a blend of polite concern and covert searching.
Meanwhile, Zeke, who was already settled on the exclusive 4th-floor family level, sank into a plush leather chair in the Black family's private booth. The night had already been profoundly tiring. He swirled a glass of amber liquor, the ice clinking softly, as he stared out at the casino's glittering tableau below.
Just as he relaxed into the quiet, his phone vibrated. It was the security detail he'd assigned to watch her.
"Sir, she's back on the 24th floor. Seems like she's looking for you," the voice reported, low and steady.
A slow, intrigued smile touched Zeke's lips. So she didn't run. She's hunting.
"Hm. Just keep watching her," he instructed, his voice a quiet murmur. "Don't intervene. Let's see what she does next."
"Yes, Mr. Black."
He ended the call and took a slow sip, his gaze distant. The scared mouse wasn't just clever. She was persistent. And a persistent mystery was a far more interesting diversion than he'd anticipated on a night like this. He waited, perfectly still, as the silent report of her movements continued to tick in from the shadows.