Chapter Eight
I LET MY attention settle on Mystic first.
The scars across his face were impossible to ignore, pale lines cutting through otherwise strong features, but the calm in his expression softened the impact of them, and instead of the hardness I might have expected from a man who had clearly seen violence, there was something calm there, something settled, like whatever had put those marks on him had long since been dealt with and put away.
Then my gaze shifted to the woman beside him.
For a second, I just stared, not because she was beautiful, though she was, but because even though I had just met her, she was very familiar to me.
She was the woman Drago would kill to get back.
My stomach tightened, because Ruby had been clear about one thing, Zeynep was supposed to be dead, and the woman standing in front of me was very much alive.
“Nice to meet you,” she said warmly, holding out her hand.
The normalcy of it snapped me back enough to move. I stepped forward, taking her hand and hoping whatever had just crossed my face hadn’t been as obvious as it felt.
“Nice to meet you too.” My voice came out steady, which felt like a small miracle considering how fast my thoughts were moving.
If Drago ever found out—I shut that down before it could go any further.
Gatsby stood beside me oblivious to how hard my head was spinning, one hand resting lightly at the small of my back, the touch so natural I didn’t think he even realized he was doing it.
Mystic stepped forward next, extending his hand.
Up close, the scars were worse, Burns tracing across his cheek and jaw before disappearing beneath his collar, but when I met his gaze and took his hand, there was nothing in him that felt dangerous in the way I had braced for.
“Nice to meet you,” I said.
His grip was firm, but he didn’t let go right away. His eyes lingered just a fraction too long, flicking briefly toward Zeynep before returning to me, like he’d caught the way my attention kept drifting in that direction.
“You too,” he said quietly.
It passed easily enough that no one else seemed to notice, but I had the distinct feeling I’d just been weighed.
Around us, the clubhouse carried on like nothing had shifted, music pulsing through the speakers, pool balls cracking somewhere off to the side, laughter rising and falling near the bar, but I couldn’t quite lock back into any of it.
My attention kept pulling back to her.
Zeynep had already turned toward Gatsby, asking him something about whether he’d eaten any of Fiona’s Hummingbird cake, her tone easy, familiar, like she belonged here in a way that didn’t leave room for doubt. There was no caution in her, no sense that danger might be following her into the room.
Nothing hidden.
Which meant one of two things.
Either she had no idea what her being alive could bring down on this place…or she trusted the people here enough not to worry about it.
I wasn’t sure which one unsettled me more.
Gatsby’s fingers closed lightly around mine. “You doin’ alright?” he asked, leaning in just enough for me to hear him over the noise.
I blinked, realizing I’d been staring again. “Yeah,” I said quickly. “Just… taking it all in.”
His grin came easy. “Clubhouse can do that the first time.”
I smiled back, hoping it looked natural, though it probably didn’t, because my thoughts were still somewhere else as I found myself glancing back toward her again, alive, standing in the middle of a room she clearly belonged in, with a man she clearly loved, and a quiet unease settled into my chest, because if Drago ever learned that truth, nothing about this would stay simple.
The music and voices followed us as Gatsby led me down the hallway, the sound dulling with each step until it softened into a low, steady hum behind closed doors.
“This way,” he said, glancing back at me like he wasn’t entirely sure why he’d decided to bring me here.
I followed without hesitation.
The hallway felt different from the main room—quieter, more personal, the kind of space that belonged to the people who lived here instead of the ones just passing through.
He stopped at one of the doors and pushed it open. “Don’t expect anything fancy.”
I stepped inside and paused, because it wasn’t what I expected; the room was neat, almost deliberately so, but that wasn’t what caught me, it was the feeling of it, like stepping into a different time.
A record player sat on a low shelf against the wall, a small stack of vinyl beside it.
The posters were real, framed instead of taped up, their colors softened with age in a way that felt chosen, not neglected.
A diner-style clock ticked quietly above the dresser, and a chrome-edged lamp cast a warm glow across the room that didn’t match the harsher lighting out in the clubhouse.
Even the bedding fit, clean lines, subtle pattern, like it belonged somewhere decades back.
I moved further inside, my fingers brushing lightly along the edge of a shelf as I took it in. “It’s like walking into a different time,” I said softly, a small smile pulling at my mouth. “I always find that kind of thing peaceful.”
Gatsby leaned against the doorframe, but he wasn’t looking at the room. He was watching me. “Yeah,” he said. “Something like that.”
My attention shifted toward the corner.
And that’s where it broke.
A modern computer setup sat against the wall, multiple monitors, everything clean and precise, cables organized in a way that said this wasn’t just a hobby. The glow from the screens cut sharp and cool through the warmth of everything else.
I smiled. “That’s… a bit of a contrast.”
He huffed a quiet laugh. “Yeah. Can’t run club business on vinyl.”
I turned back to him, studying him a little more closely now. “So which one’s the real you?”
He didn’t answer right away, just tilted his head like he was actually thinking about it. “Both,” he said finally. “I just… like knowing how things worked before everything got loud.”
Gatsby was the only person I’ve ever met that understood what was going on in my head. The way he moved through this world without ever really feeling part of it. I felt the same thing and somehow, I knew his childhood was the reason, because that was mine.
“What’s you real name?” I asked, suddenly curious.
“Henry Calloway.”
“Henry,” I repeated. “It fits but so does Gatsby.”
“Coon used to give me shit about watching it all the time,” he replied with a smile. “And low and behold when I got patched in it became my road name.”
I stepped closer to the record player, glancing down at the stack. “You actually listen to these?”
“Yeah,” he said. “Helps slow things down.”
I picked one up carefully, turning it over in my hands. “My grandmother had one,” I said. “I used to sit on the floor while she played the same songs over and over again.”
His gaze dropped to the record. “My mom did that,” he said, almost like he wasn’t planning to say it out loud. “Same album every Sunday morning. Coffee going. House quiet for once.”
He didn’t add anything else, but something in his voice shifted just enough to leave a space behind it.
I looked up at him.
He hadn’t moved, hadn’t tensed, but the room felt different now, like I’d stepped a little closer to something he didn’t hand out easily.
“Good memories?” I asked, softer this time.
He shrugged, easy but not careless. “Yeah. The few good ones.”
Not a full answer, but enough.
I set the record back down gently. “It suits you,” I said.
“What does?”
“This.” I gestured lightly around the room. “You don’t feel like the rest of it out there.”
His mouth curved, something almost amused in it. “Careful,” he said. “Keep saying things like that, people might start thinking I’m soft.”
I met his eyes, holding there for a second longer than I probably should have. “I don’t think soft is the word I’d use.”
Something flickered in his gaze. Quick. Gone just as fast.
He pushed off the doorframe and stepped back into the hallway. “Come on,” he said. “I’ll show you around.”
I followed him out, the noise of the clubhouse rising back up around us, but the quiet of that room stayed with me.
And so did the feeling that Gatsby wasn’t nearly as simple as he let people believe.