Lock bolts snapped, spilling hotel warmth and track lighting into the rain-soaked alley. Humid laundry steam curled around dumpsters, and the air stank of wet cardboard and cold engine oil.
Two staircases emptied into this choke point: Silas crouched on the service stair; Evan's private exit spilled down a shorter flight toward the same slick pavement and the waiting parking lot.
"—she's just a gallery toy, tell her to stay bought," Evan Royce said as he stepped through the doorway mid-sentence, already adjusting the steel watch that loved the spotlight. Gym shorts, branded hoodie, arrogance hung like a tailored coat.
The stocky guard flowed ahead of him, baton in hand, while the lean guard scanned the curb. Two short horn taps told the drivers to hold position; two guards at the door, two drivers in the sedans.
The choreography said they'd practiced this evacuation every night.
Silas waited a heartbeat longer on the stairs, counting the guards' footfalls and the rhythm of their breathing. Satchel low, head dipped.
Let them see a late tray runner, not a pissed-off courier.
He slid from the staircase casual as late room service. The stocky guard's palm lifted in polite denial, the kind that promised broken wrists. The lean guard's nostrils flared like he smelled trouble under the rain.
Headlights flared, blinding bright. Silas turned with the glare, dragged the Riverstone clear, and let the gun bark once.
BANG!
The round hammered into Evan's ribs. The impact threw him backward into the doorframe.
He slammed the door with his shoulder hard enough to rattle the hinges, a wet grunt punched out of him.
Blood smeared down the robe's edge and trickled onto the marble threshold, and Silas had a blinking instant to savor it before the choreography broke.
"Kill that courier," Evan spat, voice rasping around pain.
The stocky guard reacted first, dropping low and whipping the baton toward Silas's wrist. Silas yanked the pistol back, grazed the man's forearm, and tried to pivot for a throat shot.
The lean guard vaulted from the private stair's side rail, boots slamming the metal. He landed behind Silas, shoulder driving him into the cold service rail while a glove-clad hand hunted for the gun.
Silas slammed an elbow back, clipped ribs, and rolled his wrist to keep the muzzle away from himself.
The nearest driver flung a sedan's rear door wide and folded the seat flat. The driver ducked out, hauled Evan inside, and that sedan lurched toward the lot while the second car idled as backup.
Rehearsed. Clean. Everyone knew their box step but him, and he was already a beat late.
Gunshots on a wet alley meant sirens would follow soon. Pedestrians dialing 911 were free backup for Evan. He needed to end this before cops wrote him into their report.
Silas lunged sideways into the open door, letting it crack against the lean guard's shin. The stocky guard's baton whistled past his temple and clanged off the rail.
For half a beat the three of them tangled—heels slipping on oily rain, bumper pushing into Silas's thigh, water glare in his eyes.
Silas slammed his boot heel down on the lean guard's foot and rolled off the rail, buying a sliver of space. The stocky guard recovered, baton carving a blur for his skull. Silas ducked.
The baton smashed the stair rail, spraying rust specks across his cheek. He shoved an elbow back into the lean guard's ribs, then snapped a knee toward the man's thigh. Bone bounced off hidden armor or just thick muscles.
The stocky guard feinted high, then chopped low. Silas met metal with forearm instead of bone, the crack ringing up into his elbow and leaving his fingers buzzing and numb.
He drove a headbutt forward on instinct. The stocky guard's nose splattered, but the baton stayed in hand.
BANG! BANG!
He double-tapped the stocky guard's chest and watched the man fold backward over the private stair. In Silas's head that meant dead. The man groaned. Not dead? Armor? How many layers are these goons wearing?
The lean guard cleared space, bringing his pistol up.
PFFFT!
A suppressed round ripped through Silas's calf, dumping him to one knee. The muzzle flash was barely there, just a grey spit under the rain.
PFFFT!
The second round hit his shoulder and spun him, vision flashing between headlights and rain. The stocky guard was already crawling back up the steps, rage and armor hauling him upright, baton raised.
PFFFT!
A third shot punched his side, hot wet spreading under the jacket as he twisted for cover. Mira will cuff me herself if I bleed out waiting for EMS, his brain hissed.
Silas twisted right, trying to drive the lean guard into the idling sedan's hood. The guard rode the shove, slipped backward, and got his second hand loose. Suppressed or not, a nine mil at this range would end him.
If I drop, Evan walks with more bodyguards next time.
Silas chopped at the lean guard's wrist—missed—scraped his knuckles on the sedan's mirror instead. Headlight beams fanned across the alley, turning steam from the laundry vent into a blinding curtain.
He ducked under the mirror, felt rain and exhaust burn his throat.
The stocky guard's baton slammed his ribs. Something cracked under the jacket, pain spiderwebbing out while bile and copper fought for his tongue. He swung the Riverstone up anyway and fired at the lean guard's gun hand.
BANG!
The lean guard screamed as the round chewed through his knuckles; the suppressed pistol clattered onto the sedan's hood.
The stocky guard swung the baton like he wanted a skull crack. Silas slammed the Riverstone into the stocky guard's chest again and fired point-blank.
BANG!
The hit shoved the stocky guard back, but the vest he hadn't accounted for soaked another round. Panic flickered in the man's eyes—armor only bought time.
The lean guard dove for his dropped pistol with his off hand. Silas shot him in the chest before he could bring it to bear.
BANG!
The round thudded into hidden armor. The lean guard grunted, staggered, and fell against the sedan, pistol skidding away. Rain hissed on the metal, turning everything slick.
The lean guard lunged anyway, dragging Silas into a grappling knot. Pain roared through Silas's calf and shoulder. The lean guard's left hand fumbled for his belt knife.
Silas jammed the Riverstone up under the lean guard's chin and fired.
BANG!
Red sprayed the sedan's window. The lean guard dropped boneless, knife clattering.
Something splashed behind Silas. He turned—or tried—and a baton smashed into his upper back instead of his skull. Armor bruise met broken rib. The blow drove him to hands and knees.
He rolled, vision tunneling, and saw the stocky guard—not dead, vest blooming bruises, blood pouring from a nose broken three times over—raising the baton two-handed.
The baton hung inches from his face. Despair cracked the stocky guard's stare as Silas jammed the Riverstone up and fired.
BANG!
The round took the stocky guard through the eye. He dropped forward, baton bouncing off Silas's shoulder before rolling away.
Silas's world narrowed to the rain and the single round left in the magazine. His calf bled into his shoe; shoulder burned; ribs ground when he breathed. He swayed, trying to stand, and failed.
Somewhere, the sedan's engine revved—Evan's drivers already gone toward a hospital. Sirens wailed faint and rising. If uniforms hit this alley now, they'd find a shooter without a target and let Evan write the story.
He stared at the two bodies, waiting for one to twitch. Neither did. He finally let himself fall, back hitting oil-slick concrete. His lungs pulled shrapnel instead of air. Blood slicked his palm when he pressed it to his side.
Killing the guards bought him nothing. Evan was gone. If sirens turned the corner, they'd tag him as the villain. He'd lost the war despite winning this battle.
Something blinked over him—shards of light arranging themselves in midair like a blinking heads-up display. Silas blinked hard, wondering if a concussion had decided to get creative.
The shapes kept steady into clean glyph strokes, stark white against the dripping darkness.
Pain screamed under the rain—calf on fire, shoulder bone-deep cold, ribs scraping every time he tried to inhale. His vision pulsed with each heartbeat, breath hitching like broken glass.
[Enforcer, Void Citadel is opening for you.]
Rain fell louder. The guards' voices weren't coming; only distant sirens and the drip of rain off the stair. Silas stared at the floating text while the rest of his world went dark.
Sienna Hart's phone buzzed with the special ringtone she reserved for emergencies. Caller ID: Private Number. She swiped. A hotel duty manager's voice hit her like cold water.
"Ms. Hart, report to lobby security. Head down. Right now."
"What happened?" she asked, already tying the robe's sash around her waist. Her heels clicked against marble as she hurried out of the suite, damp air spilling in from the still-open door.
"Rear lot shooting. Drivers took Mr. Royce to Harborview. Two guards down. Say back where you were."
"I… I was at the gallery," she recited, stepping into the empty elevator. Rain streaks crawled down the glass; sirens echoed faintly through the well. Her reflection looked pale and guilty under the ceiling lights.
The elevator opened onto the lobby—a wash of gold light, polished marble, and worried guests whispering by the bar. A uniformed concierge guided her behind the front desk, past a velvet rope, and into the security room.
Monitors tiled the wall. One screen looped the alley feed in shaky slow motion.
Silas filled the frame.
He slid from the staircase, gun in hand. He fired. Guards swarmed him. She watched the baton swing, watched muzzle flashes, watched all three men bleed and fall. Her pulse roared in her ears.
The room smelled like burnt coffee and ozone.
"Is that—" she started.
"No names," the manager snapped. "Story is you were off-site. We caught a rogue courier. That's it."
The footage continued, the left edge still smeared from whatever Silas had rubbed on the lens.
Halfway through the replay the image juddered—the frame froze on tangled bodies, smeared into static, then went black as if the wireless link had shorted. When the feed returned, two corpses lay sprawled, blood blooming in rainwater—and Silas was gone.
It felt like the air had ionized inside the room, a metallic charge crawling over her skin.
"Cheap Wi-Fi and a greasy dome," the manager muttered, tapping the haze. "We step away for thirty seconds and someone drags him? Drag those useless bodies out before guests see them.
"Senior Royce will level this place if his son flatlines and we've got dead guards on display. Reset the positions. We scrub the footage before anyone else sees this."
Sienna pressed her palm to the table to stop her fingers from shaking. "He should not have been there," she whispered. It felt like confession and excuse at once.
"Then he should've stayed gone," the manager said. "You never saw him. Go back upstairs, finish your champagne, and wait for instructions."
She nodded, though the motion felt detached.
The feed that had frozen and smeared seconds ago now showed only rain-slick concrete—and two bodies cooling in it.