17. Justin
JUSTIN
The image of her disappearing into the back seat lodges in my chest like something unfinished. Too clean. Too controlled. Like a door closing before I’d decided whether to kick it in or walk away.
The moment replays anyway.
I own the fucking place.
The way her expression shifted—not fear or panic. Calculation. She swallowed her embarrassment, reassessed the terrain, and chose retreat over confrontation. She didn’t argue or make a scene, but she did make a clean exit.
That wasn’t a woman chasing a thrill.
That was a woman who realized she’d misjudged the board and refused to bleed for it.
Which leaves one question that refuses to loosen its grip.
What was Rowan Hale doing at the Slay Pen?
She isn’t reckless. She isn’t na?ve. Everything about her—guarded speech, clipped answers, the way she observes instead of engages—speaks to intent. If she came here, it wasn’t out of curiosity or boredom.
She had a purpose. And I don’t like not knowing what that purpose is.
I head back inside as the club seals itself around the absence she’s left behind. Music surges. Bodies shift. Masks tilt. The Slay Pen adapts the way it always does, indifferent to anything that doesn’t disrupt its rhythm.
Miguel falls into step beside me, quiet and efficient as ever.
“She’s on her way home. She’ll get there safely.”
“Good.”
He hesitates, then asks, “You want eyes on her after tonight?”
I don’t answer immediately.
Part of me bristles at the idea—the intrusion of it. Rowan already feels watched. Push too hard and she’ll vanish, disappear into whatever shadows she’s learned to survive in.
But another image intrudes. Pink bunny ears. A car idling in the dark. A man who never enters the club, only watches who leaves it.
That concern wins.
“Yes,” I say. “Low-profile. No pressure. If she notices, pull back.”
Miguel nods. “And the bunny?”
The word tightens something sharp in my gut.
“Find out who he is,” I say. “Plate. Pattern. Schedule. I want to know why he’s always there—and whether he was watching her.”
Miguel’s jaw sets. “You think he’s connected to her?”
“No,” I say. “I think he’s connected to whatever she’s hunting.”
Which is worse. Because he’s an unknown variable.
He peels off toward the security corridor to start making calls.
I head for my office, the bass dulling as the door seals behind me.
Through the glass, the club stretches out below—people drinking, dancing, shedding pieces of themselves under strobe lights and pretending they won’t miss them tomorrow.
I don’t belong down there tonight.
I need answers.
I pull my phone out and scroll to a number I don’t use often. Silas answers on the second ring.
“You calling means someone’s about to ruin my sleep,” he jokes lightly.
“I need a background,” I reply.
“Name?”
“Rowan Hale.”
A pause. Subtle. Intentional.
“She’s a law student,” I tell him. “St. Augustine’s. Clean record at a glance. But I don’t want the glance,” I say. “I want what doesn’t show up.”
“How deep?”
Deep enough that I already know why he’s asking. My resources are better than his. If I’m calling him, it’s because I want something I can’t get to.
“Family. Financials. Any gaps. Anything she’s erased or insulated.”
Silence stretches.
“You don’t usually ask me to dig into civilians,” Silas comments, treading carefully.
“She’s not a civilian,” I reply, certain in a way I can’t yet justify. “I just don’t know what she is.”
Another breath. Slower this time.
“All the way down?” he asks.
“All the way,” I confirm. “Quiet. No ripples.”
“And if she notices?”
“She won’t,” I say. Then, after a beat, “That’s why I’m hiring the best person for the job.”
Silas hums. “Nothing else?”
“I have a picture. It’s grainy, but it’s all I’ve got. I’ll send it to you.”
“I’ll start tonight,” he promises. “But if she’s as careful as you think, this won’t be fast.”
“Put as many men as you need on it,” I tell him. “I need to know who she is as soon as possible.”
I hang up and lean back in my chair, letting the night press in. Rowan at the bar. Rowan scanning the room, then choosing retreat over confrontation.
And then there’s the bunny.
Those ridiculous ears he wore weren’t a joke. They were a misdirection—meant to blur expectation, to invite assumptions. To make us think female, or harmless, or anything other than what he actually was. Maybe he was a woman. Maybe that was the point.
In this city, costumes are camouflage. They’re how people beg to be underestimated. And I’m a man who underestimates no-one.
My phone buzzes again. Miguel.
“She’s home,” he informs me. “Lights are on. No indication she knows she’s being watched.”
“Good. Keep it that way.”
“And you?” he asks. “You done for the night?”
“No,” I admit. “I’m just getting started.”
When the call ends, I don’t sit back down. I cross to the window, palm resting against the cool glass. Below me, the city spreads out—neon veins pulsing, streets slick with motion. From this height it almost looks orderly.
That’s the lie cities sell.
Down there, secrets are wrapped in money and silence, guarded by people who believe time will blur them into nothing. That if they wait long enough, the truth will lose its shape and stop mattering.
They’re wrong.
Secrets don’t fade away.
They change. They grow.
Rowan Hale stepped into my world tonight without knowing where the lines were drawn—or how quickly they could cut. I let her walk away with that knowledge intact.
That should have been the end of it. A warning given. A smart retreat taken.
But this doesn’t feel like an ending.
It feels like pressure building. Like the walls are closing in, and something has started moving that won’t stop just because it should. Like once a wheel turns, it keeps turning.
She came to the Slay Pen for a reason.
She didn’t find what she was looking for.
Which means she’ll change her approach. Take a different path. Get closer another way.
She’s digging.
I recognize it the way I always recognize shifts in power—small changes people overlook because everything still looks stable on the surface. But stability is an illusion. It only holds until someone presses hard enough.
And somewhere out there, Rowan is already adjusting her plan. Deciding how much she’s willing to risk to get the truth she’s chasing.
That belief—that answers are worth the price—gets people killed.
If I don’t figure out what game she’s playing, someone else will decide the rules for her. Someone who won’t offer warnings. Someone who won’t care if she survives the lesson.
I stay at the window, watching the city glow and pulse below me.
Because if she keeps digging, someone is going to hit solid ground. And when they do, everything buried underneath will come roaring into the light.