8. Chapter 8
Rylen
The air inside of Velvet is chilled to a crisp, clinical sixty-five degrees Fahrenheit, but it doesn't do a damn thing to cool the heat crawling under my skin.
It feels like a betrayal, weaving this trail of breadcrumbs just to hide a drink with another man, but after the wreckage of this morning, I can’t afford to let him see the cracks in my focus. He needs me to be dependable.
I push open the door to the security room in the basement and my irritation begins to build the second I find Nathyn sitting in my chair.
His dark brown hair is perfectly slicked back, with his feet kicked up on the desk like he owns the place, fiddling with a butterfly knife; the snick-snick of metal is the only sound in the room.
He doesn't bother to look up when I walk in, but the lazy, sharp-edged smirk playing on his lips tells me he’s about to make my life difficult. "Didn't expect to see you tonight," Nathyn says, not looking up from the knife. "Not planning on standing our boy up, are ya?"
"I'm working, Nathyn, maybe you should try it," I reply, my voice sounding tight in the quiet space.
Nathyn raises an eyebrow, a slow, arrogant smirk spreading across his face.
"Working? Or hiding?" he asks, finally flipping the knife shut and looking at me.
"Because Bry’s been blowing up my phone since four.
" He flips the knife shut and looks at me, deepening that arrogant smirk.
"Apparently, the man’s had a full-blown crisis over which jacket makes him look less like a 'rockstar' and more like someone you’d actually want to talk to.
" he remarks, rolling his eyes, "Tried on three different outfits, Ry.
Three." Nathyn exclaims, holding up the corresponding fingers.
"I reckon he's genuinely shitting himself over this. "
Guilt builds like a slow, corrosive burn in my gut.
I know that Bry needs to be the wall that keeps me from crossing over into unforgiveable territory with Maddox, but hearing about all the effort he's going to—knowing that Bry's at home obsessing over his reflection, while I’m using him as some tactical shield, makes me feel like a total prick.
Nathyn sits up, his boots hitting the floor with a dull thud. "What's the matter? You're looking at me like I owe you money."
I shake my head to dislodge the thoughts swirling in my mind. "Did you fix those feeds like I asked you to? "
"Yeah, mostly. Just some lag in the buffering like I said it would be," Nathyn shrugs, leaning back. I know he’s talking out of his ass and I'm getting really tired of his non-chalant attitude lately.
"Yeah? And what about the other night when Cass triggered the silent alarm?
Who knows how long she could of been waiting because this stupid piece of fucking shit system crashes every two seconds.
Fix it," I growl, shoving him out of my chair and sit, pulling up the grid.
Nathyn flounders trying not to fall face-first on the floor.
My nose scrunches in disgust as I start hammering away at the keys. The console is sticky with God-knows-what—probably that energy drink shit Nathyn lives on—the monitors flicker with a nauseating green tint.
"Watch the goods," Nathyn mutters, though he doesn't sound truly offended. He’s used to my temper, which is half the problem.
He drops into the secondary seat, the hydraulics letting out a protested hiss and crunch as he settles his weight.
"You’re wound too tight boss-man. The system is old, not broken. It just needs a little personality."
"It needs to work," I retort, my eyes scanning the cascading lines of code and the grainy security thumbnails for each floor.
"Personality is for people. Security is for.
.." I stop mid-sentence. My fingers hover over the thermal override.
Something on the peripheral monitor isn't twitching the way it should. In a station this old, there’s always a baseline of noise—the flicker of a dying lightbulb, the vibration of the ventilation fans—but the feed for the service level is eerily still. It's too perfect, almost as if— shit .
I lean forward, squinting at the timestamp in the corner. The seconds are ticking by, but the shadow across the floor hasn't moved an inch.
"Nathyn, the fourth-floor service door. Why is the feed looped?" I rasp, my voice dropping to a guttural hum that feels less like speech and more like a physical threat vibrating in the air. Nathyn blinks, leaning in, his nonchalant mask finally cracking. "What? No, I just checked those—"
"Well it fucking is," I snap, already hitting the comms. "Colson, get to the fourth-floor service lift. Now."
The chair wheels scrape against the linoleum as I abruptly stand, preparing to provide backup.
"Wait, Rylen—hold up!" Nathyn lunges for the console, his fingers flying over the keypad in a desperate attempt to override the command. "The sensors are probably just glitching. If you send Colson in there blind, he might trip the local lockdown and we’ll be locked out of the whole sector.”
I’m already halfway to the door, my heavy boots echoing against the metal grating. "Then you better hope he doesn’t," I call back over my shoulder, not slowing down for a second.
"Seriously, just let me just run a quick diagnostic.” Nathyn says as he scrambles out of the chair, nearly tripping over his own feet as he rushes to catch up. "It could be a feedback loop from the cooling fans. You know how the thermal sensors get when the humidity spikes—"
I ignore him, hitting the stairs two at a time. The air in the stairwell is colder, smelling of damp concrete from a recent sweep from the cleaners. Nathyn is hot on my heels, his breathing heavy as he tries to maintain his protests while keeping pace.
"If we go up there and it's nothing, we're just wasting time we don't have," he pants, his shadow dancing erratically against the walls under the flickering fluorescent lights. "Think about the paperwork if we trigger a Level 3 alert over a ghost in the machine."
I don't bother responding. My right hand is already on my holster, my eyes locked on the heavy bulkhead door marked with a fading, stenciled ' 4 '
"Rylen, stop!" Nathyn reaches out to grab my shoulder just as we reach the landing. I whirl around, my expression hard enough to make him recoil. "If that door is open, it means someone’s inside. And if someone’s inside, they’re already past the primary gates.
Now shut the fuck up and watch the corridor. "
I don't wait for his acknowledgment before shouldering the door open and stepping into the dim, silent hallway of the fourth floor. My back presses against the freezing metal wall, the transition from the noisy stairwell to the empty corridor hitting like a freight train.
I signal with a flat palm for Nathyn to stay low.
To his credit, the rambling stops instantly.
Thankfully he knows when to shut up. I draw my sidearm, keeping the muzzle lowered but ready as I move with measured, silent steps, and tap my ear-piece, my voice coming out as a breathy rasp. “Colson. Status. You at the lift?"
Static hisses for a heartbeat before Colson’s low growl of a voice cracks through. “Approaching from the east corridor. Thirty meters out. I’ve got no movement. It’s quiet."
"Good. Keep it that way," I whisper, inching toward the junction. "We’re on the floor. Moving to your position. Do you have eyes on the door?"
"Negative. I’m behind the pillar at the T-junction. If I move any closer, I’ll be in the line of sight."
I glance back at Nathyn who is right on my heels, eyes tense, clutching a handheld scanner that casts a dim, rhythmic blue pulse against his face.
He checks the screen and gives me a sharp, single shake of his head meaning no electronic signatures yet.
The air feels thin, the only sound is the light clatter of our boots and the distant, rhythmic thrum of the station's core.
"Colson," I breath into the comms, my eyes locked on the flickering shadow of the service lift gate up ahead. "Wait for my mark. If anyone’s in that lift, they’re trapped. Don't flush them out until I’m set."
"Copy that. Holding position," he grunts. I slide forward, rolling my weight on my boots to keep from making sound. My heart hammers against my ribs, yet my hands remain steady as I reach the corner.
The silence on the fourth floor is suffocating, broken only by a heavy, uneven breathing that doesn't belong here. I pivot around the edge, weapon drawn, and the light from the dying fluorescent overhead catches the stocky, unmistakable frame of Arthur Morrow.
He’s leaning against the lift doors, adjusting the cuffs of his blazer with a nauseating degree of calm, as if he’s waiting for a private car instead of standing in a restricted corridor in a club he was banned from eight days ago.
"Arthur," I growl the name in a low, jagged warning. The smug prick sneers when he hears me, his double chin tucking into a silk tie that probably costs more than Nathyn’s car.
"Rylen. I was wondering which one of Maddox's dogs would be the one to track me down. Should've guessed it would be you," Morrow tuts, clicking his tongue. "You were barred for a reason. You make one move toward the suites, and I’ll ensure you leave here in a body bag," I snarl in response.
"You think your little threats matter boy?
" Morrow hisses, his upper lip gathering to bare a glimpse of symmetrical white teeth.
He steps forward, his face reddening with that familiar, bloated arrogance.
"I paid a king's ransom to get past your so-called 'impenetrable' security tonight.
I have business to settle with that bitch Cass, and I won't leave until she's made up for the embarrassment she caused me," he snarks, lips vanishing into a hard, compressed line.