Kieran's posture never changed—but behind his eyes, the handoff was immediate.
Vey surfaced smoothly as Kieran crouched, the motion fluid enough that anyone watching would only see a man inspecting damage. To Vey, the room snapped into focus with clinical clarity.
Time was the enemy.
Police could be delayed, stalled, redirected—but not forever. And a dead body inside the Continental, right now, with inspectors already sniffing around the edges of the business? That wasn't a complication.
That was a death sentence.
Vey moved closer to the body, careful not to disturb what little order remained. He studied the wounds, the angles, the lack of struggle. Clean. Professional. No fibers out of place, no scuffs, no blood spatter beyond what gravity demanded.
Whoever did this hadn't wanted information left behind.
Good for them. Bad for him.
"No usable evidence," Vey murmured under his breath.
He rose in one smooth motion and turned, voice calm, sharp, utterly devoid of hesitation.
"Cleaning supplies. Now."
The staff member didn't ask questions. He just moved.
Within seconds, gloves were on. Towels out. Disinfectant uncapped. Sheets stripped and replaced with practiced efficiency. Blood was blotted, scrubbed, erased—every trace treated not as something horrific, but as a logistical failure to be corrected.
The body was wrapped in plastic, sealed tight, then layered again inside thick hotel towels. Efficient. Dignified. Anonymous.
Vey gestured to a housekeeping cart.
"Put him in there. Cover it. No gaps."
They did.
"You," Vey said, pointing to one worker. "Fourteenth floor. Empty room. Use the service elevator. Once inside, open the false wall. You know which one."
The worker nodded, face pale, and pushed the cart away at a brisk, silent pace.
"Hurry."
Vey scanned the room again—and felt the tightness settle into his chest.
They weren't going to make it.
No matter how fast they scrubbed, no matter how much bleach and polish they used, the room still felt wrong. The air carried a sterile sharpness that hadn't been there before. The carpet was damp in places it shouldn't be. The mattress, replaced quickly, still sagged unnaturally where weight had once rested.
Too many tells.
Too many seconds ticking away.
Vey exhaled slowly through his nose.
"Stop," he said quietly.
The staff froze.
Vey's thoughts raced, each second branching into contingencies and consequences. The sharp bite of bleach hung in the air, clinging to the back of his throat. Too sharp. Too obvious. Even if they'd scrubbed perfectly—and he couldn't be sure they had—someone with a badge and time would smell it, feel it, know something had been erased.
Then it clicked.
Vey turned to the concierge, the tension never quite reaching his face. He smiled instead, quick and knowing.
"How close is the confiscated stash we have?"
The concierge blinked, then nodded as understanding dawned. "Security room. I can have someone bring it up in under a minute."
"Good," Vey said. "Bring it now. This is what I want you to do—while I stall the police for a little longer." His eyes hardened just slightly. "In five minutes, I don't want to see a single one of you on this floor."
The concierge didn't argue. He just moved.
Vey took one last look at the room—at what was missing, at what still threatened to linger—and then turned the corner.
The switch was seamless.
By the time he reached the elevator bank, Kieran was in control, posture relaxed, expression pleasant, every trace of urgency buried deep beneath polish and charm.
The elevator dinged.
The doors slid open.
A bellhop stepped out first, face drained of color, hands clasped too tightly in front of him. Behind him came two uniformed officers and a detective, eyes already scanning, already cataloging.
Kieran's smile widened just a touch.
"There you are," he said warmly, spreading his hands as if greeting late guests. "I was beginning to worry you'd gotten lost."
The bellhop swallowed.
The detective frowned. "Mr. Everleigh."
Kieran inclined his head. "Gentlemen. What took you so long? I've been waiting to show you the room."
Kieran didn't move to lead them.
He stayed planted just outside the elevator doors, body angled casually as if the delay were incidental rather than deliberate. The bellhop fidgeted beside him, then blurted out, voice thin with nerves, "I—I'm sorry, sir. I hit nine instead of six."
Kieran laughed, easy and genuine, the sound cutting through the tension like a blade wrapped in velvet. He reached out and patted the bellhop's shoulder.
"It's all right," he said warmly. "I've done that more times than I can count. Muscle memory betrays you when you least expect it."
The officers weren't smiling.
"We'd like to see the room," one of them said flatly.
"Of course," Kieran replied, nodding once—yet still not moving. "I haven't been inside yet. Wanted to preserve the scene and all that. Did the call specify what happened?"
The detective's eyes narrowed. "We can talk while we walk."
Kieran exhaled, a slow, measured sigh. "I know relations between myself and the department haven't always been… smooth." His smile softened, something conciliatory entering it. "But for what it's worth, there are no hard feelings on my end. Everyone makes mistakes."
The words weren't an apology.
They were a reminder.
After a beat, the officers shifted, impatience winning out. They started down the corridor.
Kieran fell in step beside them, his nerves coiled tight beneath his skin. Every footfall echoed too loudly as they approached the corner. He kept his breathing even, his expression neutral, while his mind screamed numbers.
Please be gone.
They rounded the corner.
The hallway was empty.
No carts. No staff. No sign that anything unusual had occurred.
Kieran didn't allow himself to smile—but the tightness in his chest loosened just enough to let air back in.
They stopped outside the room.
Kieran turned to the bellhop. "Do you have the key? I didn't bring one. Didn't want to compromise the scene."
The bellhop nodded quickly, fumbling it out with shaking fingers. He swiped the card.
The lock clicked.
One of the officers pushed the door open.
Kieran stepped forward—and gasped.
"Oh my—" He put a hand to his chest. "My room. They ruined my room."
The space beyond was chaos.
Sheets were torn from the bed and knotted together, mattress askew. A lamp lay shattered on the floor, its shade crushed beneath a boot print. Another had been hurled against the wall hard enough to crack the plaster. Empty bottles littered the nightstand and carpet, the sharp, unmistakable stench of alcohol and weed hanging so thick in the air it burned the nose.
Whatever bleach scent had lingered before was gone—smothered beneath indulgence and excess.
On the counter near the minibar sat a small scatter of white powder, clumsily wiped but unmistakable.
The officers froze, eyes scanning, instincts recalibrating.
Kieran shook his head slowly, voice heavy with disappointment.
"I offer discretion, privacy, safety—and this is how some guests repay it."
He looked genuinely offended.
Behind his eyes, Vey counted down the seconds.
And smiled.
The detective turned slowly toward Kieran, eyes sharp now, interest cutting through the haze of disgust.
"Where's the guest who checked into this room?"
Kieran frowned, as if genuinely trying to recall something that refused to surface. He shook his head once.
"I have no idea," he said calmly. "I don't keep tabs on every guest in my hotel. We promise discretion here—sometimes that means real discretion."
One of the officers snorted quietly while another continued scanning the counter.
Kieran gestured lightly with one hand. "If you'd like, I can call my concierge. He'll have the booking information—name, payment method, length of stay. Whatever was provided at check-in."
The detective considered it for a beat, then nodded. "Do that."
"Of course."
Kieran stepped back into the hallway, waving a hand near his face as if the smell alone had driven him out.
"Good God," he muttered. "I can't imagine breathing that in for more than a few seconds."
He moved a few steps down the corridor, just out of sight of the room, and pulled out his phone.
The line connected almost immediately.
"It's me," Kieran said quietly, tone businesslike. "They're inside the room now."
A pause. A voice on the other end, low and controlled.
"Understood."
"Give them the booking details," Kieran continued. "Exactly what's on file. Nothing more. Nothing less."
Another pause.
"And make sure security logs show no staff entry after checkout time," Kieran added. "If they ask about cameras—sixth floor corridor was down for maintenance last week."
"I'll handle it," the concierge replied.
Kieran ended the call and slipped the phone back into his pocket.
He leaned lightly against the wall, schooling his breathing, his expression settling into practiced irritation—the look of a man inconvenienced by someone else's mess.
Inside the room, drawers were opening. Evidence bags rustled.
Whatever the Court had intended, the scene had already shifted.
Kieran smiled ducked back into the room, "My concierge is coming with all the details you should need. Please finish this business up quickly id like to start cleaning this disgusting room as soon as possible." He sniffed the air and blanched, "Im sure you understand."