The fire escape rattled under their weight as they climbed. Six stories up, metal groaning with each step. Below them, the bass from the clubs pounded through the night, loud enough to mask their movement. Monti kept checking his phone, one-handed, watching the camera feeds as they ascended.
"Salmo's still on the third floor," Monti reported quietly. "Looks like he's talking to someone. Two other guards with him."
"Top floor still clear?" Asked Kínitos
"Yeah. Hallway's empty." Monti pocketed the phone as they reached the fifth floor landing. "But we've got maybe ten minutes before he heads back up."
"Then we move fast." Said Kínitos
They reached the sixth floor. A window looked into a darkened hallway—the same one Monti had been watching on the cameras. Empty, just like the feed showed. Kínitos tested the window. Locked, but the latch looked old, cheap.
He pulled out a small pry bar from his suit's utility pocket—one of the modifications Jade had added. Three seconds of careful pressure and the latch popped. The window slid open silently. They climbed through.
The hallway was quieter than the lower floors—insulated, expensive carpet muffling their footsteps. Recessed lighting cast everything in a dim amber glow. Doors lined both sides, each with a brass number plate.
Room 601. 602. 603.
"Which one?" Monti whispered.
Kínitos moved down the hall, checking each door. Most were locked. A few opened into empty rooms—executive lounges, private meeting spaces, all expensively furnished and unoccupied. Room 608 was different.
The door had a keypad lock—digital, more secure than the others. And beneath the handle, fresh scratches in the brass. Someone had been forced through recently. Kínitos gestured to it. Monti nodded. He pulled out his phone, checking the cameras.
Still no sign of Salmo heading back up. But that could change any second. Kínitos examined the keypad. Four digits. Thousands of possible combinations.
"Can you bypass it?" Monti asked.
"Not without triggering an alarm." Kínitos studied the lock, then the door frame. Heavy. Reinforced.
Monti was staring at his phone, fingers moving rapidly across the screen. His brow furrowed in concentration, swiping and tapping with increasing speed.
"What are you doing?" Kínitos asked.
"Seeing if the camera history picked it up," Monti said, pointing up at the security camera mounted to the right of the door. "After all, someone had to type it in."
Kínitos looked up at the camera, then back at Monti. "Shit, that's smart. How long is it going to take?"
"Just a sec."
Monti's fingers flew across the phone screen, rewinding the camera footage, playing it back frame by frame. He zoomed in on the keypad, watching as a guard's hand moved across the buttons hours earlier.
"Come on, come on…" Monti muttered, replaying the sequence again. "There. Got it."
He stepped up to the keypad and began typing, referencing the footage on his phone. Four beeps. The lock clicked.
Green light.
The door unlocked.
"Fuck yeah!" Kínitos whispered, raising his hand.
Monti grinned and slapped it in a quick high-five.
They pushed the door open. The woman was inside, tied to a chair in the center of the room. Her face was a mask of bruises—one eye swollen completely shut, her lip split and crusted with dried blood. But it was her arms that made Kínitos's stomach turn. Long, deliberate cuts ran up and down her forearms, ribbon-like slashes that had bled freely and were still seeping. Blood covered her arms, dripping onto the floor beneath the chair.
A blindfold covered her eyes. She was shaking, tears streaming down her battered face from under the fabric.
"Please," she sobbed, her voice hoarse and broken. "Please, I'm sorry. I don't know anything. I swear I don't know anything—"
"It's okay," Monti said quickly, moving toward her. "It's us. We're here to help you."
He started working on the ropes binding her wrists, his fingers moving carefully to avoid the cuts on her arms.
"W-what?" she stammered, confusion breaking through her fear. "You—you came back?"
Kínitos stayed by the door, watching the hallway through the crack. His jaw was tight, anger simmering beneath his calm exterior.
They did this to her. Because of us.
Footsteps echoed in the hallway. Multiple sets. Moving fast.
"Shit," Kínitos breathed. He quickly pulled the door closed, pressing his back against the wall beside it.
Two guards rounded the corner, talking in low voices. They weren't rushing, but they were heading in this direction. One of them was carrying something—a metal case, maybe
medical supplies.
Or torture tools.
Kínitos's hand moved to his watch, ready to activate his suit if needed.
Behind him, Monti worked faster on the ropes, whispering reassurances to the woman as her sobs intensified.
The guards' footsteps grew louder.
Closer. Kínitos quickly pulled the door closed behind him, stepping fully into the hallway just as the two guards came into view.
They stopped, looking him up and down. One of them—stocky, crew cut, suspicious eyes—tilted his head. "Hey, you're not supposed to be up here."
"Oh no, no," Kínitos said, forcing his voice to sound casual, maybe a little drunk. "I booked the top floor. VIP package and everything. I just don't know where the bathroom is."
The guards exchanged a glance. The second one—taller, meaner-looking—stepped closer and placed a heavy hand on Kínitos's shoulder. The first guard moved to his other side, hand sliding around his hip, patting him down.
"Well, let's see your ID card, bud," the stocky one said.
"Huh? My ID card?" Kínitos's heart was hammering, but he kept his expression confused, playing dumb.
"Yeah, your fucking I—"
Gunshots rang out from downstairs.
The sound was sharp, unmistakable. Multiple weapons. Screaming followed immediately after.