By now, the hum of Elysium's main floor was familiar—almost comforting. That low throb of bass beneath the air, the quiet rustle of silk and leather, the murmur of conversation that always seemed to carry secrets in its undertones. But tonight, there was something else laced into it. A sharper edge.
I'd been drifting from the bar toward the central lounge when I spotted Andre, the dungeon monitor, leaning lazily against one of the steel support beams. He was dressed in his usual uniform—fitted black T-shirt with the faded white block letters SAFETY FIRST, FUN SECOND, cargo pants, and that ever-present coil of rope hanging from one hip.
"Monroe," he called, his grin crooked and amused. "Tell me you haven't broken any of my rules yet."
I laughed. "Depends on which list you're using. The official club rules, or the ones you keep in your head?"
"Both," he said, eyes narrowing like he was about to cross-examine me.
I shrugged. "Then no, unless you count spilling champagne as a felony."
"That," Andre deadpanned, "is at least a misdemeanor." He tipped his chin toward the stage where a couple were finishing a dramatic rope suspension. "Most of the time, I'm dealing with people who just get… over-enthusiastic. Forget a check-in, push a little too far, get too lost in the moment. Harmless, mostly. But sometimes—"
He stopped himself, scanning the crowd.
"Sometimes what?" I pressed.
Andre's eyes narrowed, his grin shifting into something sharper. "Sometimes it's not just play. Sometimes someone's here for the wrong reason."
I frowned. "Like breaking consent?"
He shook his head. "Worse. Like breaking trust." His gaze flicked up toward the balcony, the one with the high-backed leather chairs and gauzy curtains for those who liked to watch without being seen.
"What's up there?" I asked, even though I'd spent enough nights here to know.
"That's where we've got a new face. Calls themselves a voyeur, but they're not watching the scenes. They're watching people."
The way he said it made the hairs rise on my arms. "What's the difference?"
Andre shifted his weight, leaning in just enough that I caught the faint scent of leather oil on his shirt. "A voyeur gets off on the energy of what's happening—watching people connect, play, trust each other. But this one… they're tracking who's talking to who, what gets whispered in the corners, who's slipping in and out of the private rooms. Not once have I seen their eyes on a scene."
"That's… deliberate," I murmured.
"Exactly. Looking, not watching," he said. "And looking means hunting."
I followed his gaze to the balcony. The lights were low, but I thought I saw a shape shift behind the curtains—a flicker of movement, there and gone.
"You think they're trouble?" I asked.
"I think," Andre said slowly, "that trouble's my job to spot before it blows up in everyone's face. And my gut's been right too many times for me to ignore it."
I tried to joke, to cut through the sudden chill in my chest. "So what, you want me to go up there and give them the journalist glare?"
His eyes locked on mine. "No. I want you to keep your eyes open. You've got a knack for seeing what other people miss, and that makes you useful. Just… don't be obvious about it."
That last part landed heavier than he probably intended. My "knack" wasn't just luck—it came from years of watching people for stories, cataloging their tells and habits, weighing what was worth printing and what was worth protecting. But here, the stakes weren't column inches. They were trust, privacy, maybe even someone's safety.
I nodded slowly. "Alright. I'll keep an eye out."
Andre's grin returned, but it didn't erase the tension in his shoulders. "Good girl." The words rolled out casually, but in Elysium, they carried weight. Approval. A subtle reminder of the dynamic that lived in the air here, even between people who weren't scene partners.
I moved away, weaving through the crowd, but my focus kept drifting upward. The balcony curtains shifted again, and this time I thought I saw the outline of a face—a still, deliberate silhouette.
For a second, I wondered if they were watching me.
By the time I reached the far side of the lounge, the shape was gone. Just the empty drape swaying slightly, as if stirred by a hand that had vanished back into the shadows.
The air felt warmer suddenly, but it wasn't the kind of heat I'd grown used to in this place. This heat came from a quickened pulse, from the whisper of danger curling at the edges of pleasure.
Somewhere in the crowd, laughter rose over the music, and the spell broke. I forced my shoulders to relax, reminding myself that Elysium's first rule was safety—and if anyone could enforce that, it was Victor and his people.
But still…
As I turned toward the bar, I caught myself scanning every corner, every reflection in the polished steel fixtures. Not looking for beauty this time. Not even looking for Victor.
Looking for a ghost in the balcony.