"If first impressions were a blood sport, I just got drop-kicked by a Gucci-wearing gladiator."
If I could slap myself right now, I would. Hard.
I'd rehearsed it in my head: be professional, stay chill, don't look like some backwater idiot seeing a private jet for the first time.
And yet here I was, practically vibrating at the sight of buttery landings, sleek black cars lined up like parade floats, and staff so polished they could blind you with a smile.
I sucked in a breath and planted my ass properly on the leather seat, spine straight, hands folded like a good little intern.
The car smelled like luxury, like leather stitched by gods and cologne that probably cost more than my rent for six damn months.
Calm down, Moreau. It's just a car. It's just part of the job.
I was halfway through building my mental fortress when the door beside me cracked open.
Reflex had me chirping out a "Thank you," before I even looked up.
And that's when I saw him.
Not some uniformed driver.
Darian Gravelle.
Standing there like sin in a tailored suit, one hand on the door, the other tucked casually into his pocket. A polite smile curled on his mouth, too soft, too human for someone who usually radiated the emotional warmth of a morgue.
...Okay. What in the holy hell?
I froze, full system crash. Brain.exe stopped working.
He tilted his head, just a little. Small move. Way too intimate. "Miss Moreau?" His voice was low, almost lazy. It slid against my skin like silk you couldn't afford to touch.
Move, idiot.
I scrambled out of the car, heel catching awkwardly on the doorframe. Saved myself from full-on faceplanting by pure feral instinct.
Focus, dammit. Focus.
For one second, one delusional heartbeat, I wondered if maybe... just maybe... he was interested?
I mean, a man like that opening the door for me? In the real world, that's a neon sign, right?
...Until I looked around.
Yeah. Right. Cameras tucked into walls. Staff buzzing like invisible bees. Every smile, every move recorded, analyzed, ready to be turned into a PR headline.
Oh.
OH.
Of course. This wasn't about me. It was about optics. About Darian Gravelle, golden boy CEO, making sure no one could say he treated the intern like lint on his $10,000 shoes.
I bit back a laugh so bitter it could've stripped paint. Relax, Moreau. You're not special. You're a prop.
Darian fell into step beside me, the distance between us crisp, measured. Strictly professional. As sterile as a damn surgical room.
"I hope your flight was comfortable," he said, voice smoothed out to CEO-polite, the kind they use when cameras might be lurking.
I matched his energy like a goddamn pro.
"Very comfortable, Mr. Gravelle," I answered, bright and polished, flashing a smile so perfectly tuned it could've been sold as a limited edition. "Thank you for the opportunity."
His eyes, steel-gray and cutting, flicked toward me. Just for a heartbeat. Long enough to make my stomach flip and then scold itself for flipping.
"I only opened the door," he said, so lightly it almost sounded like a joke, but still wrapped tight in that velvet formality. "You're the one who took the opportunity."
...Okay. What the hell is that supposed to mean?
I didn't have time to decode it. We were already walking toward the hotel, its glass doors yawning open like the jaws of some diamond-studded beast.
Inside, the lobby was insanity. Marble floors that could double as mirrors. Chandeliers the size of small planets. Air thick with the scent of white roses and the kind of money that never had to ask for anything.
I adjusted the strap of my tiny, not-remotely-designer purse, trying to look casual.
Inside my brain, a panicked, feral version of me was already building an emergency spreadsheet calculating how many reincarnations it would take to afford one night here.
I snuck a glance at Darian.
That jawline could cut diamonds. His stance casual but sharp, like a wolf who didn't even need to growl to own the room.
His face blank. Effortless. Like this obscene level of luxury was as normal as breathing.
Born swinging from a chandelier, that one. Probably diapered in silk, too.
I let out a slow breath.
Play the game, Moreau. Smile sweet. Keep your eyes sharp. Don't drown in a world that was never built for you in the first place.
The cool blast of the air conditioner, the faint scent of white tea, the soft shuffle of expensive shoes, all of it curated, controlled, made flawless.
Including the man standing next to me.
Darian Gravelle, Vanguard's golden boy, looked like he belonged here, like he was part of the decor. Immaculate. Formal. Untouchable.
I was busy mentally calculating how many zeroes it would take to afford that ridiculous porcelain vase in the corner when he suddenly leaned in, just a fraction.
"Miss Moreau," he murmured, voice pitched so low it barely existed. Just for me. Just between us.
I turned my head, too fast. My shoulder almost bumped into his chest. Damn it.
He stepped even closer, close enough that I felt the whisper of his breath against my neck.
"One small detail," he said, his voice smooth and devastatingly calm, making the hair along my spine stand on end. "Everyone here... believes this is real."
I blinked, hard.
For a second, the world tilted. Staff bustling past, crisp uniforms flashing in my peripheral vision, people living inside a reality that wasn't reality at all.
"They don't know this is a simulation?" I whispered back, barely moving my lips.
His smile was slow. Dangerous.
"Exactly," he said. "And you are not allowed to break it."
Shit.
I felt the rush hit me like a shot of adrenaline, a weird cocktail of excitement and panic fizzing through my veins, magnetic and inescapable.
Darian pulled back half a step, like he hadn't just shattered my entire nervous system with a single breath and a handful of words.
"You're free to act as you would in the real world," he continued, all polished CEO voice again, but I could feel something slick and electric hiding just under the surface. "Consider yourself... a detective."
Free?
Free to do what, exactly?
My mind immediately spun out, half-terrified, half, God help me, intrigued.
I plastered a bright, easy smile across my face, masking the twitch of nerves sparking through my fingers.
"Sounds like a fun assignment," I said lightly, tilting my head, threading just enough playful challenge into my voice. "I'll try not to disappoint."
His eyes, those cool, unreadable gray eyes, held something. Amusement, maybe. Or maybe... something heavier.
"I'm sure you won't," he replied, voice steady as ever, before turning and walking toward the reception desk.
I stayed where I was for a beat longer, letting his words coil through my head like smoke.
There was something about the way he spoke. About the way he looked at me.
Not like I was just another intern. Not like I was just another pawn. Something more.
I shook my head quickly, shoving the thought away.
Focus, Moreau.
This was a big game. And I'd just been thrown into the deep end without a life jacket. The smile stayed glued to my face, sunny, perfect, exactly where it needed to be.
But under it, my heart was pounding... just a little faster than I liked.
We sat in the private lounge on the second floor, far from the other guests, but still close enough to stay within the golden rules of a seven-star hotel's etiquette.
Warm-white light spilled gently onto the glass table between us, casting soft reflections of two untouched cups of black coffee.
Darian lounged casually in his chair, one arm draped over the backrest, the other lazily twirling a tiny silver spoon between his fingers.
I sat straight-backed, legs crossed, hands resting neatly on my lap, pretending to be the definition of cool. Inside? Complete meltdown.
He was watching me. And not with that usual professional, boss-man gaze.
This... was different.
"So," he said slowly, voice low and unhurried, like we were just discussing the weather. "In the next five minutes, someone's going to approach you."
I nodded, all fake enthusiasm, pretending the blood wasn't roaring in my ears because of how intimate this distance suddenly felt.
"Someone?" I asked with a polite, easy smile. "A friend... or a threat?"
Darian raised one eyebrow, the corner of his mouth tugging into a slight smirk, like he knew exactly how much more nervous I was than I looked.
"It's part of the simulation," he said. "Identify. Analyze. Decide."
His fingers stopped spinning the spoon. He set it down slowly onto the table, a tiny, harmless movement that somehow made the air around me feel ten times heavier.
Silence.
For a few seconds. His gaze... dropped. Not to my eyes. To my lips.
It happened in a blink, so fast it could've been my imagination…
But I caught it. I felt it. Like he was privately celebrating the fact that, for once, I was at a loss for words.
Before I could even think about reacting, he lifted his gaze back to mine, all polite and proper again.
As if he hadn't just casually set my heart on fire inside my chest. "Don't trust a friendly face too easily," he said calmly. "Including... mine."
I held my breath, held my expression, held back the completely unprofessional urge to flip this glass table onto him and sprint to the nearest restroom to scream into a mirror.
Because, seriously… Was that real? Or was I losing it from watching too many late-night crime dramas?
I nodded again, Oscar-level professional.
"Noted, sir," I said, my voice coming out just a little rougher than I meant it to.
He studied me for a second too long, long enough to feel it under my skin… And then he stood up.
"Good luck, Miss Moreau."
With a slow, easy stride, he walked away, leaving me sitting there, knees halfway to jelly, heart squeezed like somebody wringing it out with their bare hands.
Goddamn it.
I didn't waste a second. The moment the briefing ended, I moved. Fast steps, heart wrapped in a paper-thin layer of steel.
Room 1709.
The access card was still in my pocket. One soft beep, one gentle click. I pushed the door open.
The air inside... cold. Not from the AC, this was something else. Something frozen, lurking just beyond the walls.
The room was spotless. Painfully so. The bed cover stretched tight without a single wrinkle. Chairs lined up like soldiers. The desk empty, except for a plastic fruit plate that looked... too plastic.
And then… The smell.
Faint. Barely there. But it hit me. That unmistakable whiff, meat beginning to turn.
I inhaled slowly, stepping deeper in. My heels tapped softly against the marble floor.
Somewhere above, soft classical music floated down, Vivaldi, if my brain wasn't playing tricks. Built-in ceiling speakers. Creepy? Oh, absolutely. But I was already knee-deep, wasn't I?
Bathroom. I nudged the door open.
There. In the gray marble bathtub, a woman's body. The water had gone cloudy. Cold. Her skin showed blotches of blue, pooling where gravity won.
I flicked a glance at my watch. Something was... wrong.
The time of death should've been hours ago.
Water this cold, flesh this stiff, no way this was recent. And yet…
I caught sight of a lavender candle at the edge of the tub. The flame was small. Steady.
Still burning.
If she'd been dead that long, the candle should've burned out. Wax gone. Oxygen used up.
But this? This flame looked fresh. Like someone lit it maybe an hour ago. Two, tops.
It didn't add up.
I moved closer, instinct dropping me into a crouch.
Up close, her wrists were shriveled. Restraint marks? Maybe. Or just postmortem dehydration? I needed more to be sure.
But one thing screamed loud and clear: This whole scene... was too perfect. Like someone arranged it. Staged it to look almost normal.
Almost. And that almost made every hair on the back of my neck stand up.
I fought the urge to pace around like a rookie detective. One wrong move could ruin the crime scene.
Focus, Eris. Whatever this was, it wasn't some tragic accident. I straightened, scanning the bathroom again.
Towels neatly hung. Toilet lid down. Toilet paper roll perfectly smooth.
Way too neat.
No one drowns in their own bathtub and leaves everything this pristine.
I scratched the back of my hand, a nervous tic when my brain started overheating.
There was something here.
And if I was sharp enough, I'd find it. If I wasn't?
Someone, or something, was going to kill me too. (Or at least... kill my career.)
One choice.
Play smarter than the game I'd just been thrown into.
A game that, the longer I stayed here, the clearer it became, was never meant to be just a training exercise.
A thin smile curved on my lips. Reflexive. No need to panic, right? Not yet. Not yet.
I moved around the bathtub, holding my breath. Every step felt like playing chess with a ticking bomb.
My eyes caught something near the sink. A small piece of… Paper.
I crouched down. My eyes squinted automatically, brain firing up. The writing, could it be the victim's? Maybe.
The letters slanted right, shaky, like someone's hand trembling while scribbling their last words.
"I'm sorry. I tried."
Classic. A suicide note.
I almost laughed, almost, until my gut twisted instead. It was too textbook. Too... neat.
Seriously? A handwritten apology tucked neatly by the sink in a scene like this?
Okay, maybe she really did it. Maybe she cracked under the weight of life. Maybe heartbreak, maybe career crash. Lavender candle for "relaxation." Classical music to "soothe the nerves." Warm bath turned ice-cold over time.
Boom.
Case closed.
Except, I wasn't born yesterday.
I glanced at the sink. A tiny razor, those slim types for trimming eyebrows or peach fuzz. Perfectly clean. Not a drop of blood.
Just sitting there, staged like a prop on an IKEA showroom counter. Suspicion bloomed hard in my chest.
If this was a real suicide, why go through all this trouble? Why light a candle? Why leave the bathroom spotless like a five-star hotel suite?
I pushed myself back to standing. My spine complained a little, but whatever. I folded the paper slowly, slipped it into a tiny evidence bag from my emergency kit.
My brain was already racing.
Typical scenario: Victim climbs into the tub, overdoses, drifts off, dies peacefully.
But… No pill bottles. No glass. No half-digested bile staining the floor.
Just... clean. Too clean. My gaze drifted to the corner of the bathroom. A lipstick lay there.
Brick red. High-end brand, I recognized the embossed gold lettering without even touching it.
The shade matched the color still clinging to her cold lips. I picked it up between two fingers.
My nose twitched. No whiff of alcohol, no greasy fingerprints on the tube. It had been wiped down. Meticulously.
Lovely.
Luxury lipstick. Handwritten apology. Little razor. Lavender candle. Vivaldi in the background.
Sweet setup, huh?
A very classy suicide.
Or…
Someone had staged every single detail, weaving this pretty little lie, so that people like me, cops, investigators, whoever, would waltz in here and nod along.
"Poor thing. Killed herself. How tragic."
And if I wasn't careful? They'd be laughing behind the scenes. I crouched again, scanning the floor.
There… A faint shoe print. Almost invisible unless you knew where to look.
Not heels like the victim wore. Heavier. Men's shoes, maybe?
Maybe.
My smile stretched wider, too sharp to be pretty. Nice try, whoever you are. But I'm not that easy to fool.
I tapped my lips lightly, an old reflex whenever my brain started spiraling too fast.
Ground yourself, Eris. Stay sharp, stay steady.
I rose back to my feet. This case looked simple. A little too simple.
But I could feel it, in the heavy, frozen air of this room, something far uglier was rotting behind the lavender candles and pretty violin music.
All I had to do was find the right door. And if it led straight to hell? Fine. I brought my own matches.
I crouched by the edge of the bathtub again, my eyes skimming over the victim's body, already tinged blue around the edges.
On a whim, I nudged her hand slightly… And there it was. Beneath her nails, small, but clear enough, something clung there.
Skin.
Not hers.
Someone else's.
Dry, torn, like she had fought, scraped and clawed at someone in a desperate last stand.
But... she lost.
A breath slipped out of me, short and sharp, as the classical music buzzing from the speakers somehow made my frustration worse.
Why? Why stage everything so sweet and peaceful, when it's obvious she fought to survive?
My mind started working at full speed, a thousand invisible calculations stacking behind my smile.
If this was suicide, why the signs of struggle? If this was murder, why dress it up like a peaceful farewell?
I shifted to stand, my spine creaking in protest. Thanks, adrenaline. I was mid-thought when a soft knock snapped my head around.
A hotel staff member, a kid, honestly, maybe fresh out of some fancy hospitality program, stood there, clutching a clipboard like it was a lifeline.
"I-I'm the one who found her, Miss," he stammered, his hands trembling.
I offered him my default smile, polite, empty, mildly threatening if you knew how to look. "Alright," I said lightly. "Tell me everything."
He gulped, eyes darting everywhere but at me before finally settling on the carpet.
"She... uh, the guest... she seemed really depressed lately," he said. "We all kinda noticed. She hardly left her room, just sat alone in the lounge sometimes... she looked... tired of everything, you know?"
I listened, ticking invisible boxes in my mind.
Depressed. Withdrawn. Isolated. But darling, I didn't survive this long by trusting first impressions.
"Did she talk to anyone?" I asked, voice smooth as silk.
He squinted, thinking hard. "Not really, Miss. Mostly just... small talks with the concierge... or sometimes room service."
I gave a little nod. "Good. You may return to your duties." He bolted, practically tripping over his own feet to get away.
Cute.
I turned back to the room, this time heading for the sleek little desk across from the bed.
A small notebook lay there, neat and innocent.
I flipped it open. Not a suicide letter. Not a desperate diary of grief. But… A list. Plans.
"Meeting with Investor A, Thursday."
"Book concert tickets in Vienna, Friday."
"Family vacation next month, confirm villa booking."
I flipped another page.
"Find PR consultant for new project."
"Start basic Spanish lessons."
I let out a soft click of my tongue.
If you're planning to die, you don't bother scheduling villa stays and Spanish classes, do you?
The neat little rows of plans tore through the carefully woven façade of this whole scene like knives through paper.
She wasn't hopeless. She wasn't giving up. She was building a future. Until someone made damn sure she didn't have one.
My fingers brushed my forehead, trying to steady the spin of my thoughts.
Frustration itched at the base of my skull, the kind that said I was standing in a mousetrap, and someone was already grinning with their hand on the trigger.
I exhaled slowly, scanning the polished, too-perfect luxury suite around me. And without even meaning to, my lips curved into a bright, easy smile.