Julian stepped back into the gymnasium. The auction was running smoothly. On the central stage, a velvet-covered pedestal held a relic of the old world, but Julian didn't look at it. His gaze swept the crowd, moving frantically over the suits and the silk dresses.
He was looking for one man.
George was nowhere to be seen. Julian's heartbeat spiked. He forced his legs to move, weaving through the clusters of bidders, his breath coming in shallow, controlled hitches.
He reached the railing where he had stood only twenty minutes ago. Tyler was still there. Beside him, Aldo was leaning heavily against the brass bar, a glass of red wine tilted precariously in his hand. He was muttering gibberish to himself.
Julian set his palms against the cold metal railing. The chill of the brass seeped into his skin, grounding him, easing the frantic rhythm of his heart just enough to speak.
"Everything's running smoothly, I see," Julian muttered.
"Oh..." Aldo turned around, his movements sluggish and heavy. He squinted through bleary eyes. "Nobody. Didn't you just go to take a shit?"
"Yeah," Julian replied awkwardly.
"Then? Why you here?" Aldo slurred.
Julian ignored him and glanced at Tyler. The man was calm, his eyes fixed on the auction floor, seemingly oblivious to the conversation.
"I just came back," Julian said. He glanced over his shoulder toward the hallway before looking back at Aldo. "Did you see George anywhere? I have something important to tell him."
"George?" Aldo stepped forward, his whole body tilting sideways. He let out a wet hiccup. "He was here just now. Asking for Rex. Did you see Rex?"
Tsk. Julian realized instantly that Aldo was in no shape to provide directions, let alone a coherent thought. If he was going to find George, he'd have to do it himself.
Julian turned to leave, but a voice stopped him.
"He's there."
He turned back, his eyes landing on Tyler. The man hadn't moved his head, but his voice was clear.
"Where?" Julian asked.
Tyler nodded toward the right.
Julian followed the gaze, squinting against the glare of the overhead lights. At first, he saw only more strangers. He took a few steps, leaning over the rail to get a better vantage point.
There he is.
George had his back turned to the floor, deep in conversation with a small group of investors.
"Thanks," Julian said to Tyler, not waiting for a response before walking away.
Aldo turned back to Tyler, swaying so hard he spilled a dark splash of wine on his sleeve.
"Tyler? Do you... do you know Nobody?"
Tyler stayed silent for a long moment. His gaze remained locked on the new item being wheeled onto the stage—a heavy crate that looked far too familiar.
"I do."
Julian stopped a few feet away. The men surrounding George looked like they belonged in a different world—crisp suits, expensive watches, and the kind of posture that came from never being told "no."
He just stood there for a moment, listening to the hum of their conversation about logistics and profit margins.
The man in the blue suit was the first to notice him. He broke off a sentence, his eyes scanning Julian's disheveled appearance, trying to place him among the staff or the shadows.
"Is there something we can help you with?" the man asked.
Julian shook his head. The movement drew the rest of the group's attention. Half a dozen pairs of eyes turned toward him, including George's.
"Julian?" George said, his brows knitting together. "Is there some problem?"
"Not exactly." Julian's voice wavered. "Can I have a moment of your time? There is something you need to know."
"I'm listening." George's gaze drifted past Julian. "And where is Rex?"
"Yeah, about that." Julian looked at the other men, then back to George, lowering his voice just enough to signal urgency. "There seems to be some trouble. Rex told me to come get you."
George's eyes sharpened. "What happened, exactly?"
"It's a bit... uh, it's hard to explain. Better if you see it yourself."
George processed this for a heartbeat. He looked at Julian's eyes, searching for a tell, but Julian kept his gaze just flat enough to be unreadable.
"Alright," George said, adjusting his cufflinks. "Show me."
He offered a shallow, professional nod to the men in the circle. "Excuse me for five minutes, gentlemen. I'll be right back to finish our discussion."
Julian led the way, his boots rhythmically striking the concrete. George walked beside him, his stride measured and confident, the embodiment of a man who owned the air he breathed.
Behind them, two guards in black suits followed. Julian didn't have to look back to feel their gaze; it was a heavy, prickling sensation centered between his shoulder blades.
"How did you know Rex was calling for me?"
George asked. "He was supposed to have brought the prisoners to the holding wing by now. He's late."
"I went with him," Julian answered, "I had to use the washroom. The auction... the crowd was getting to be a bit much."
"And then? What actually went wrong? Are the guards troubling him? Or is Rex just being difficult again?"
"No. It's those two." Julian slowed as they approached the bend that led to Room 11 B.
"One of them said he knows you. He told Rex he wouldn't move another inch until he spoke with you directly."
George turned his head slightly. "Knows me? Many people claim to know me, Julian. Most of them are lying or looking for a handout. What makes this one different?"
"He started talking," Julian hesitated. "He mentioned a warehouse. He mentioned a murder. After that... things went out of hand."
"Out of hand?"
Julian nodded towards the door. Room 11 B was still meters away, but George's pace quickened.
A dark, thick liquid was seeping from under the threshold. It moved across the gray concrete like a slow-moving shadow.
"Is that blood?" His voice had lost its conversational lilt.
Julian's eyes lowered. He didn't answer. He just kept walking, his heart thumping against his ribs so hard he feared it might crack a bone.
"Did Rex kill him?" George didn't wait for an answer. He reached the door and stared down at the pool.
George reached out and touched the door. He noticed the splintered wood, a jagged hole near the center of the paneling. It looked like it had been punched through by something heavy and sharp.
He pushed the door open.
Inside, the room was a void.
"Rex?" George called out. His voice echoed off the empty benches. "Rex, answer me."
No reply came back. The only sound was the heavy breathing of the two guards behind them.
"Don't waste time," George snapped, turning to his men. "No one cares if he killed a man."
He gestured for the guards to enter. Julian stepped aside. He watched as the two men in black suits drew their sidearms and clicked on their tactical lights. The beams cut through the darkness for a second before the men stepped over the threshold.
They were quickly swallowed by the shadows.
"This isn't their blood," Julian muttered. He was looking at the floor, at the way the red trail smeared under the guards' boots.
George turned around slowly. He looked at Julian, his brow furrowing. "Then?"
A sudden, heavy thud followed from inside the room. It was the sound of something large and limp hitting the cold concrete.
George's body tensed. Every sense he possessed began to scream a warning. His skin went cold. He felt the urge to run, but his feet were anchored to the spot.
"See for yourself," Julian answered quietly.
Slow footsteps reached George's ears. Tap. Tap. Tap.
George turned back toward the darkness. From the center of that pitch-black space, someone was approaching. He knew the rhythm of his guards' movements, and he knew the heavy, arrogant stride of Rex. This was neither.
Two figures began to materialize in the doorway, stepping into the dim light of the corridor.
A man and a woman.
The blood belongs to Rex.
George felt the chills crawling up his spine. He understood in a single, flashing moment what had happened to Rex. He understood what had happened to the guards who had just walked into the dark. And he understood exactly what was about to happen to him.
"You," George breathed. "Julian, you—"
George's hand reached inside his jacket pocket, fumbling for his own weapon, his forehead breaking out in a greasy sweat. But he was too slow.
Something sharp struck the side of his neck.
George's eyes flew wide. He tried to speak, to shout for the army of men only a few hallways away, but his tongue felt like lead. His vision began to blur, the hallway lights stretching into long, distorted lines. The world tilted sideways.
His consciousness faded into a gray fog. His knees buckled.
Julian moved quickly, catching George before his heavy frame could hit the floor. He shouldered the man's weight, his face set in a grim mask.
Simon stepped out of the room, his eyes scanning the hallway to ensure they were still alone.
"Let's get moving," Julian said. "We don't have long before others realise George isn't coming back."
Julian and Simon were hunched over, George's limp arms draped across their shoulders. The man was a dead weight, his expensive leather shoes dragging across the gravel as they navigated the shadows of the backside door.
Sara followed a few paces behind, watching people passed by them.
A couple of runners paused, crates of supplies balanced on their hips, watching the trio pass.
They saw the unconscious man, the grim set of Simon's jaw, and the frantic energy in Julian's eyes. But in this place, curiosity was a death sentence. They looked away, adjusting their loads and continuing their work as if nothing had happened.
They reached the parking lot.
"Which one?" Simon asked.
Julian fished into his pocket and pulled out a key fob he'd lifted from a high-roller's coat back in the gymnasium. He pressed the unlock button. On the far right, a set of sleek LED headlights let out a sharp, electronic chirp.
"There," Julian pointed.
It was a deep, blood-red coupe—low-slung, aggressive, and clearly worth more than a average civilian would earn in a lifetime.
They reached the vehicle, and Julian popped the trunk. With a collective heave, they rolled George into the narrow space. The "dicky" slammed shut with a muffled thud.
Julian threw the keys to Simon, who caught them mid-air without looking. Simon slid into the driver's seat while Julian and Sara scrambled into the back. The engine roared to life.
Simon shifted into gear and began to turn the steering wheel, the headlights sweeping across the rows of parked cars. The beams hit a figure standing just a few meters ahead.
Simon slammed on the brakes.
The man approached slowly, unaffected by the blinding glare. He wasn't alone. He was shouldering another man whose head hung limp, his feet dragging through the dirt.
Julian's breath caught in his throat. "Tyler."
"Viper," Simon spoke softly. He stepped out of the car, his hand hovering near the doorframe. "Is there something?"
Viper took a few more steps forward into the light. With an indifferent shrug, he shoved the man he was carrying toward them. The man tumbled to the ground, groaning as he hit the pavement.
It was Aldo, his face flushed and smelling of sour wine even from several feet away.
"Take this joker with you."
Simon looked down at the drunken mess. "Who is he?"
"You'll know when you get back," Viper replied, his eyes hooded. "He could be of some help. Consider it a bonus for the trouble."
Simon nodded slowly, glancing back at the car. Julian and Sara were already stepping out, watching the exchange with wary eyes.
Viper's gaze shifted. He looked at Sara, then at Julian, giving them a single, knowing nod— the look of one ghost acknowledging another in the quiet of the night.
He turned away, his shadow stretching. With a slow, steady stride, he walked until the orange glow of the lamps could no longer reach him. The darkness didn't just hide him; it claimed him, leaving nothing but the cold, empty silence of the Neomar.