The night air hit like a wet slap—thick with humidity, neon reflections, and the kind of tension you feel before a storm or a shootout. Noon adjusted his jacket, eyes scanning the skyline like he was half-expecting it to collapse.
"Still time to back out," I offered, not really meaning it.
He snorted. "Please. You say that like I've got somewhere better to be."
We rounded the corner, and there it was—Mirage. Half club, half cathedral of vice. Built into an old parking garage, it rose like a dare: black glass, floodlights that pulsed like a heartbeat, and a line of glittering, dangerous-looking people stretching around the block. A low hum of bass seeped from inside, carrying with it the scent of ozone, sweat, and expensive regret.
Nikolai was already there, standing under a flickering sign. He looked like he hadn't moved since we left, the duffel slung over his shoulder like it weighed nothing.
He didn't say a word. Just nodded once and walked.
We followed.
The bouncers at the front wore suits sharp enough to cut and expressions that made you forget your last name. Nikolai whispered something to one of them—a name maybe, or a code—and just like that, the velvet rope peeled away like it was afraid to touch him.
Inside was worse.
Mirage was a kaleidoscope of red lights, body heat, and distorted music, everything blurring into itself like a bad trip with too much money behind it. Dancers moved like flames, and shadows clung to the corners like predators waiting for a cue. Security was everywhere, but not obvious—just well-dressed people standing too still, watching too much.
We kept close.
Nikolai led us through a side corridor, past a hallway lined with mirrors. One of them wasn't a mirror—it was a scanner. It blinked green at Nikolai and let us pass.
He turned before a heavy steel door at the end.
"Vault corridor's this way," he said, tapping the jammer in my hand. "Soon as you hear the power drop, you run. Ten minutes, no more."
"And Arlo?" Noon asked.
"You'll know him when you see him." Nikolai's lips twitched. "Just don't look too long. He likes that."
Then he was gone. Like a ghost into the crowd.
I turned to Noon. His face was set, but under it—yeah, he was nervous. So was I.
We moved.
Through the steel door and into the dark hallway, pulse pounding, every step pulling us deeper into the place where secrets lived.
We were here to steal a ghost.
But something told me that before the night was done…
We'd wake up a few of our own.
The door whispered shut behind us, cutting off the music like someone yanked the needle off a record. The corridor ahead was cold—too cold for a club built in a place where air conditioning usually lost the fight. Fluorescent lights buzzed overhead, flickering like they couldn't decide whether to help us or haunt us.
I checked my watch. 11:57 PM. Three minutes until the power cycle.
Ten minutes to steal a secret from a man who burned bridges for sport.
Noon tapped his earpiece. "Testing. You hear me?"
"Clear," I said, adjusting mine. "Let's keep this quiet."
The corridor bent sharply left, and we ducked into the shadow of a vending machine as a guard passed. He looked bored. That wouldn't last long.
We crept past, heels soft on tile, until we reached the vault door. It was sleek—obsidian black with a silver trim and no visible lock, just a palm scanner glowing faint blue.
Noon looked at it. "That card better be magic."
I pulled out the keycard, held it against the scanner. A beat of silence. Then—
Beep. The light turned green.
"Guess Rime's not the only one with secrets," I muttered.
Inside, the vault wasn't gold bars and stacks of cash—it was servers. Rows of them, humming like sleeping monsters. Red lights blinked in sync, casting eerie shadows across the steel floor.
"This is it," I said. "Somewhere in here, that ledger's hiding."
Noon slid behind the closest terminal and pulled out a slim device Silas had given us—a decryptor rig with teeth. "Give me sixty seconds. You watch the door."
I did. But thirty seconds in, everything changed.
Because I saw him.
Down the hallway, maybe thirty feet away.
A man in a spotless gray suit, leaning against the wall like he'd been waiting all night. Slick black hair, pale eyes too wide, too bright. And that smile.
Not friendly. Not human.
Arlo.
I whispered into my earpiece. "Noon. We've got company."
Noon didn't look up. "How bad?"
"Like a sermon wrapped in skin."
Arlo stepped forward, his movements slow and deliberate—like he wasn't worried, like he'd already planned how this ended.
He tilted his head. "You know, I once read that every secret is just a scream with a muzzle."
I raised my hands, not backing down. "You guarding this place or reciting poetry?"
His smile widened. "Can't it be both?"
Noon hissed. "Almost there—keep him talking."
So I did.
"Funny, I thought you'd be taller."
Arlo chuckled. "People always expect monsters to be big. But it's the quiet ones… the small cuts… those do the most damage."
He took another step. Then another.
Ten feet away now.
I palmed the jammer, flicked it on.
The hallway lights died.
Alarms blinked. Everything went dark.
"NOW!" I shouted.
Noon ripped the drive from the server, slamming the decryptor into his bag. We bolted past Arlo—who didn't follow. He just turned his head slightly, watching, like he wanted us to run. Like he was enjoying the taste of the chase before it started.
"Midnight," Noon panted as we sprinted down the corridor. "We made it!"
"No," I said, glancing over my shoulder at the still-smiling Arlo.
"We just started."
Because Bishop Rime would know we were here.
Because Luca was still missing.
And because whatever was on that drive… it wasn't just a ledger.
It was bait.
And we'd bitten deep.