The SUV slid into the Montclair's underground garage, tires whispering over the smooth concrete.
Serena's mind wasn't on the ride. It was on the still image Lyra had shown them.
The man from the bar—neutral face, nothing remarkable—walking into Damien's building like he belonged there. No hesitation. No attempt to hide.
That confidence worried her more than the tail from last night.
---
They didn't bother waiting for the elevator. Damien took the stairs two at a time, Serena right behind him. Lyra moved ahead, hand brushing the grip of something under her jacket.
On the top floor, the corridor to Damien's office was unnervingly quiet. The only sound was the muted hum of the HVAC system.
Damien tapped his phone against the access panel. The door unlocked with a soft click.
Inside, the office looked untouched—desk perfectly neat, floor-to-ceiling windows spilling in late-afternoon light.
No intruder.
No sign of forced entry.
Serena stepped in, scanning the room. "If I didn't know better, I'd think you staged that security footage."
Damien didn't smile. "I don't stage my own vulnerabilities."
Lyra moved to the far side of the office, checking the adjoining conference room. "Clear. But he was here—there's a faint draft by the window latch. Someone opened it recently."
Damien crossed to the desk. His eyes caught on something lying dead center on the otherwise pristine surface—a plain black envelope.
---
The Envelope
It wasn't sealed, just folded closed. Damien opened it carefully. Inside was a single photograph, printed on thick matte stock.
The image made Serena's skin prickle.
It was of her—alone—standing outside her own building three nights ago, looking at her phone. The framing was the same style as the café photo. Crisp. Deliberate.
But the angle was impossible unless the photographer had been standing less than ten feet away.
Damien turned the photo over. On the back, scrawled in neat block letters, was a time and a place.
2:00 a.m. — Pont Saint-Louis
No other message.
---
"This isn't a threat," Serena said slowly. "It's an invitation."
Damien's eyes were unreadable. "Or a trap."
"Or both."
They stood in silence for a moment, the envelope between them like a live wire.
Lyra broke it. "We can sweep the bridge in advance. Cameras, motion sensors, hidden positions—"
"No," Serena cut in. "If they see we're prepared, they won't show. Whoever this is, they're confident enough to walk into your office. They'll vanish at the first sign of resistance."
Damien studied her. "You want to go."
"I want to know who's been walking circles around us."
---
The First Crack in the Armor
They stayed in the office for another half hour, checking for other signs of intrusion. There were none. The man had come for one purpose only: to leave that envelope.
That level of access meant either someone on Damien's staff had let him in… or his building security had been compromised.
Damien didn't like either possibility.
"I'll have every access log pulled for the last seventy-two hours," he said finally.
"Do that," Serena replied, "but don't expect it to tell us anything. Whoever's behind this, they know how to erase their trail."
---
The Plan for Tonight
By the time Serena left the Montclair, the light was fading and the city was slipping toward evening. She wasn't sure if she'd made the right call in agreeing to meet at the bridge.
But she knew one thing: if she didn't go, she'd spend the rest of her life wondering what would have happened if she had.
She called Ava the moment she was in her own car.
"I need you to do something quiet," she said. "Track every CCTV camera within a five-block radius of Pont Saint-Louis between midnight and 3 a.m. tonight. But don't pull the footage until I tell you."
"Understood," Ava said. "Should I be worried?"
Serena's gaze caught her reflection in the car window. Her expression was sharper than she'd expected. "Not yet."
---
Elsewhere in the City
The man from the bar sat in a dim, narrow room above a shuttered storefront, the lights from the street casting faint gold stripes through the blinds.
On the table before him were three photographs—Serena at the café, Serena in the lounge with Damien, and the one he'd left on Damien's desk.
A fourth photo lay face down. He didn't touch it.
When the phone on the table buzzed, he answered without looking at the display.
"It's done," he said simply.
A woman's voice replied, low and calm. "Good. She'll come tonight."