Silas Quinn was running on the kind of shift that made grown adults question their life choices.
Rain hit Seattle sideways, his manager had a whistle for a voice, and the Crown Pike Hotel apparently decided midnight sushi was a basic human right.
He ran across Pike Street with a Red Crane Delivery satchel beating against his hip like it had a personal vendetta. The moment he slipped through the revolving door, his headset lit up with righteous fury.
A lobby camera's red LED winked above him, recording every soaked step.
"How dare you delay Mr. Royce's delivery! You're getting fired if this happens again."
Dale sounded like a call center had put on anger as a cologne. Silas kept his tone even while the elevator swallowed him and his drenched hoodie.
"Traffic on Pike," he said, breathing like a guy who'd just beat foreclosure. "Won't happen again."
"Less excuses, more delivery. Fix your mask. That's your last warning."
The line died. The elevator buzzed. Silas yanked his black mask up, straightened the red origami crane on his cap, and watched floor numbers flick upward. Seventeen. Eighteen. Nineteen.
Rain trickled off his jaw. One bad night and they hang me by the branded apron.
Floor twenty spilled him into a hallway that shouted money in hushed tones.
Navy-striped runner, cream walls, brass wall lights. The air smelled like warm citrus and the quarterly profits of lightly evil corporations.
Suite 2008 sat open, guarded by Men In Suits A and B, complete with earbuds and the kind of polite blank faces that meant their dental plan was better than his rent.
One was built like a battering ram with a baton strapped to his thigh, the other lean with a gloved hand parked near the jacket hem hiding his sidearm.
Baton guy's jaw worked gum; lean shooter's gaze flicked ceiling corners, counting cameras like a habit.
Because nothing screams privacy like hiring two linebackers to watch your suite.
Silas kept the sushi tray level, tapped the frame with his knuckles, and braced for whatever rich-person version of gratitude lived here. Fingers whitened on the lacquered box.
Designer smug look answered.
Evan Royce wore gym shorts and a hotel robe like he carried sponsorship deals for both. His beard looked like it had a personal stylist.
A steel watch flared under the lights, mostly to make sure everyone noticed he could buy the entire Red Crane franchise on a Tuesday.
"Right on time," Evan said, because the universe enjoyed irony. He plucked the tray free. "Tip him."
The stockier guard pressed a crisp bill into Silas's palm. It was heavy in the way that said "hush money but make it classy."
Silas's eyes drifted past Evan because someone in the cosmos hated him enough to demand confirmation.
Inside, champagne beaded with sweat in a silver bucket. A hotel robe hung over a chair like it had survived a long day.
A woman stood near the bed wearing a scarlet lace set that left little to imagination and was probably meant to slay. Silas could confirm it succeeded.
Her hip angled toward the door, displaying a black half-moon crest tattoo he had saved tip money to pay for. Track lighting gleamed off the ink; chilled air from the vent raised goosebumps along his soaked forearms.
Of course it's Sienna.
Apparently fidelity had a lace dress code and she came prepared.
Jaw clenched, shoulders tight, brain tap-dancing between heartbreak and felony.
He logged the threats: baton guy at the door, the lean shooter hovering nearby, one camera in the corner, reflexive habit of not dying on the job.
If he lunged, the camera made him the aggressor; Dale would fire him; Mira would arrest him on principle.
The words in his head were simple.
Don't. Make. A. Scene. Live long enough to decide what to do.
He slid the bill into his pocket without looking, nodded at the guards, and backed out. His knuckles rasped the door frame; baton guy shifted to block the threshold, making sure he left.
The door closed with a soft hush. The latch clicked. The guards resumed statue mode with smug professionalism.
The elevator arrived with a ding that felt personal. A couple in evening wear praised about tasting menus while Silas watched the floor numbers fall. Twenty. Nineteen. Eighteen.
Each ding banged against the memory of splitting a single dessert with Sienna at the waterfront diner because it was either that or rent.
By the time the lobby doors parted and cold rain punched him in the face, the tightness in his chest had split into manageable shards.
He pulled down his mask, rubbed warmth into the delivery slip, and stared at the text still sitting on his lock screen.
The lobby camera behind him whirred as the lens re-centered; even the building wanted a record in case he detonated.
Almost done at the art gallery. Save me a plate?
He had smiled at that message an hour ago. Now it felt like chewing glass. Maybe she had typed it while straightening her hair in observation of the penthouse lighting.
He'd been suspicious for weeks. Tonight the universe handed him a bloody confirmation signed in red lace.
---
Sienna Hart set a champagne flute on the suite's marble counter and watched the door ease shut. The guards took up positions outside. Evan vanished toward the bathroom, humming something that probably charted in playlists titled "Monaco Rooftop."
The AC breathed cold air over damp skin; goosebumps raced up her arms.
She flipped open a sushi container, the neat rows glowing under track lighting. "Finally," she said. "Let's not let it get cold."
Evan checked that absurd watch. "Relax. We have the night."
Sienna let out a breath.
Pike couriers all blended—hoodies, caps, soaked masks—but the set of the shoulders on this one nagged her.
She shook it off, pressing her spine against marble.
She pictured his one-room apartment: cracked window sealed with duct tape, couch held together by nostalgia, ramen cups stacked like modern art.
She'd spent entire evenings perched on that couch waiting for him to drag himself home from double shifts smelling of rain and exhaust.
Now she stood on thick carpet with champagne bubbles assaulting her nose.
If Evan decided he was bored, she would lose the comped suite, the gifts, the illusion of safety.
If the courier was Silas and had recognized her and made a scene, security would have buried her under nondisclosure threats before tossing her out.
She pressed the half-moon tattoo on her hip—stupid, sentimental habit. The ink had been a promise: We're in this together. Apparently "together" had a roaming clause.
She told herself she deserved something easier than waiting up while Silas dodged traffic for tips. The part of her that still sounded like Silas called it a lie. She drowned the thought with a gulp of champagne.
---
Silas let the rain drown the last of Dale's voice as he walked toward Pike. Every street lamp threw his reflection back at him: hoodie soaked, cap crooked, eyes burning holes in the pavement.
He crossed to Third Rail Coffee, the one place open after midnight that didn't require a second mortgage. His shoes creaked on tile. The barista barely glanced up; he knew this rain-soaked regular.
"Large drip, two sugars, extra shot," he said, the order he'd worded a thousand times. His fingers left damp circles on the counter.
The news on the wall screen played back footage of a courier van riddled with holes. Rainier Avenue shooting… driver pronounced dead on scene… suspects still at large. Silas's stomach went cold.
Another courier. Different company, same city. He peeled a twenty from the bribe Evan's guard had slid him. "Keep the change."
He left the coffee untouched on the counter. Outside, rain hammered the canopy. He dialed the only number in his favorites labeled "Mira — don't wake unless dying."
The call was picked up on the second ring, which meant she was still at her desk, probably elbow-deep in homicide paperwork.
If anyone could put cuffs on him for swinging in a penthouse, it was Mira; he needed the warning label from her before he torched his life.
"Please say you're not calling from a pool of your own blood," Detective Mira Vyas said over the hiss of police dispatch.
Silas stood under the canopy and watched the city smear beyond the rain. "Define bleeding."
"Silas." She loaded two syllables with full warning-label energy.
He let out a breath. "Ran a delivery to the Crown Pike. Walked in on Evan Royce hand-feeding Sienna. Two guards, camera, full betrayal package."
A pause later, "Do I need to put out a BOLO for your sanity?"
"Not yet." He pushed wet hair off his forehead. "You're the one who keeps telling me to verify the gut feeling."
"I meant by talking, not by stalking a man worth eight penthouse rooms." Papers shuffled on Mira's end.
"Do not do anything stupid. I just got a bulletin about a delivery guy shot on Rainier. Same night. Don't be the sequel."
Silas glanced down at the untouched coffee sitting on his own table. "You telling me to walk away?"
"I'm telling you to breathe, go home, sleep, and let your brain catch up before you do something that makes me write a report."
He wanted to say yes. He wanted to promise he'd curl up on his sagging couch and practice emotional maturity. Instead he said, "Thanks for answering," because he could lie about his plans but not to Mira.
He ended the call, let the phone hang by his side, and left the coffee cooling on the counter as a donation to the tired.
He didn't have a plan yet, but he had a target and a city that had just given him permission to be angry.
No sleep. Tonight he'd bang on Caleb Porter's after-hours door, get the nine-mil he'd been putting off, and be in the Crown Pike alley before dawn.