That same night, Blank set a case file on Celine's desk.

    "Mark Fischbach," he said, stepping back. "His bodyguard."

    Celine rose a brow, and she slid the file closer, flicking it open. Mark's headshot greeted her, along with a thick array of papers: information of where he'd gone to Academy, of who he worked with prior to Mr. Edwards, down to his skill sets and...

    Celine's eyes lingered on a specific paper.

    His weaknesses.

    Her eyes flicked up to Blank.

    "The secretary gave you this?" she muttered.

    Blank lingered a moment before nodding, though Celine knew that wasn't the whole truth. Either way, she'd gotten what she wanted; she didn't care how it was taken.

    "Find him," said Celine, "and bring him to me."

She lifted the file and held it out. Moonlight graced the papers.

"It doesn't matter what state he's in," she said. "As long as he's not dead."

    Blank nodded, took the file, and left her office without another word.

———

A steady beep pulsed through the room, mollified by the shuffle of white-coat doctors and tending nurses. Outside, the hospital halls were a sterile off-white, something between blue or grey.

    Mark, who had refused to sit, gently shut the door, cutting the rest of the noise out. The beep of the monitor grew louder, and his eyes trailed past Abe and Amy sitting on the couch and onto Deja's body, still beneath thin white sheets.

    Worry gnawed in his throat.

    It had been a week since they found her, nearly dead in Wilford's stolen mansion. Three days in the ICU, where the doctors fought to keep her alive, and four days in this room, another sterile, off-white extension of the hospital.

    Deja had woken up a few times, but everytime she did, Mark and the others always left before she could see them. As much as they wanted answers—wanted to know how she got in the mansion, who attacked them, what she really knew—they knew it was better for her to rest.

    Today, however, would be their first attempt at approaching her.

    Deja stirred on the bed, brows furrowing. The doctors had cleaned her of any blood, but the bandages around her shoulder and neck were clear; an echo of where she'd been shot and left to bleed.

    Abe sat up on the couch, and Amy stood up, meeting Mark's eyes. Together, they carefully approached the bed, keeping a safe distance away but close enough for the woman to see them.

    Deja's eyes opened blearily, and she looked around, weakness in her gaze. Her eyes carefully landed on Amy, considering her, and then on Mark, where her face shifted with recognition.

    "Mark," she breathed, voice broken from ill use. She shut her eyes and grimaced. "Why... are you here?"

    Mark glanced at Amy, who sent him a reassuring glance. Abe kept sitting, not wanting to overwhelm Deja with his presence.

    Mark carefully stepped forward. "We're... the ones who brought you here," he said quietly. "We asked the doctors not to talk about it until you were well enough."

    Deja carefully breathed in, and she opened her eyes again, contemplative. She stared at the whiteboard on the wall across from her.

    "So you know what happened," she said.

    "Not really," said Mark, and he pulled up a chair. "We know Warfstache's base was ambushed, and we found you in one of the rooms, but—" He shrugged. "Other than that, that's it."

    He carefully leaned forward and caught Deja's eye. "Ever since Mr. Edwards was kidnapped, I've been working with the FBI." He glanced over his shoulder and motioned to Amy, then waved to Abe from across the room. "They've been on his case for years."

    Deja's eyes lazily trailed from Amy to Abe, and something in her gaze changed. It went from soft, searching, to something harder, sharper.

    She glanced at Mark.

    "Mr. Edwards wasn't kidnapped," she said.

    The words cut through the air, and Mark stilled, brows furrowing. Amy shifted behind him, and Abe's attention doubled.

    "What?" breathed Mark. "What do you mean? I saw it, you saw it. Wilford grabbed Mr. Edwards and dragged him off—"

    "That's what it looked like," said Deja, shaking her head. Her voice fell quiet, and she bowed her gaze. "That's what... it was supposed to look like."

    Silence riddled the room, the kind that stuck like thorns. Mark glanced at Amy, at Abe, and they sent him equally incredulous looks.

    Mark sucked in a breath and exhaled. "I'm... sorry, Madam Dumont," he said. "We'll leave you to rest a little longer."

    He stood, and Deja gave him a look, in wild disbelief.

    "Are you saying I'm delusional, boy?" she breathed.

    Mark flinched, and while her voice was quiet, it cut into him. He knew that tone; the one people used when they felt betrayed—when they had all the answers, had the truth so plainly in their palm, but no one believed them.

    Mark glanced over his shoulder at Amy, and he carefully sat back down, gazing at Deja steadily.

    "Not at all, Madam," he said quietly. "But, you have to understand... what you're saying, it's—"

    "Impossible," cut in Abe, standing up. The eagerness in his voice could be mistaken for hostility, but it only gave Deja a reason to continue.

    "I was in the same place as you," she said, glancing at Abe, then at Amy and Mark. "When he told me he didn't kidnap Dark, I didn't believe him."

    "Wait... you're saying Warfstache... spoke to you?" breathed Mark.

    Deja stared him in the eye and carefully nodded.

    "He did," she said. Something shifted in the air, and Mark, Amy, and Abe listened closely, Deja's word like a lifeline. The woman gazed at the three of them, took heed of the silence, and gazed at Mark.

    "And Dark was there, too," she said.

———

The Continental was wedged in the heart of L.A, packed between skyscrapers, but that didn't keep it from standing out.

    One glance at the place, and it was instantly known that it was a hotel for the highest-paying customers. A place that promised secrecy without having to hide the luxury.

    Jim parted from traffic, drove through multiple gates, and as the car rolled up to the archway of the entrance, the lights adorning it filtered a bright, warm hue into the car. He made a sound of awe, eyes glittering, and Dark stirred in the back seat, a hand ghosting over his stitches.

    It had become a habit, he noted, ever since they left Xilef's warehouse. One week after that god awful experience, and the wound still hurt; sometimes Dark worried if he moved too fast it'd split the stitches back open.

    He gazed through the glass sliding doors of the entrance and narrowed his eyes, familiar with the lobby and the furniture and the class within. The Continental wasn't foreign to him—he'd stayed the night plenty of times, some with his ex, Actor, others when he was trying to get away from it all.

    While a place like this was ideal for getaways, it wasn't smart for people on the run like them. Especially if they were trying to keep away from Celine's radar.

    "Are you sure we should spend the night here?" said Dark, eyes lingering on the hotel. Host shifted in the passenger side, and Dark glanced at Wilford, who sat across from him. "This is the last place to go if you don't want to be noticed."

    Wilford ran a hand over his pocket, fingers aching for a cigarette.

    "The owner owes me a favor," he said. "We'll be fine."

    The glass doors slid open, and a valet in a black uniform walked up to the car and opened the driver door, gazing at Jim. He scrutinized him, and Wilford rolled down his window from the back seat and cleared his throat.

    The valet's eyes flicked over, and his brows rose, eyes lighting up with both recognition and fear.

    "Mr. Warfstache," he said, straightening himself. "What a surprise."

    "Quit talking and take the car," said Wilford, stepping out and shutting the door.

    The valet stepped back, and the other three got out, car doors slamming shut. Host stood still, intimidating as ever, and Jim sent the valet a sheepish smile.

    "Keys are inside," he said. The valet vaguely acknowledged him with a swallow, and Jim circled around the car to help Dark stand upright. "Hey, hey," he said to Dark when he tried waving him away, "forget about what people think and just... I dunno. Pretend we're bros hugging it out."

    Dark scoffed with amusement at that, and he glanced over the top of the car, chest stirring as he stared at Wilford. God, the way he held himself—and the way he walked forward, every step full of purpose, as he put his face up to the valet's with a glare. It made Dark swallow, captivated with the sight. He couldn't hear what they were saying, but their body language was enough. Wilford scared the hell out of that valet.

    The valet reduced to a fit of nods, and Wilford patted the man on the chest, leaving without giving him a tip. The mafia boss met Host's eye and nodded, the doors sliding open as they all stepped inside.

    The moment the doors shut behind them, noise met them in a swell of life: dress shoes and heels clicking; luggage and carts rolling; phones ringing and clacking as employees behind the front desk answered them.

    The Continental was always grand and luxurious, a hotel that boasted of wide-open spaces and ceilings so high you had to crane your head back to look up at them. Every surface was polished and shined, an ivory color laced with gold marble.

    The hotel guests around them, dressed to perfection, stole glances at them as they walked up to the front desk. Some recognized Dark. Some recognized Wilford. Either way, people began to talk, and Dark could feel every whisper and stare; could feel it like a burn at his back, or the burn in his stitches.

    Wilford set his hands on the front desk, and the main lady looked up, meeting his gaze.

    "Welcome, sir," she said. "How may I help you?"

    "I'm looking for Sean," he said. "Your boss."

    The woman, sharp-edged from constantly-rude and rich guests, rose a brow at him.

    "Did you have an issue with your room?" she said, voice brittle. "If you did, it's better to speak with—"

    "Tell him his old buddy Warfstache is here," he slurred, irritated. "He owes me a favor."

    The woman's eyes widened, realizing who Wilford really was, and she quickly bowed her head. "Yes, sir, right away," she said, rushing off.

    Wilford sighed, and he leaned an elbow against the desk, glancing around the place. Dark watched him carefully, clutching onto Jim's shoulder for support, and when the mob boss glanced at him through the corner of his eye, he looked away.

    Wilford smiled to himself.

    Ever since Schneepelstein had spoken to them, things were different between them. It was only by a fraction—the slightest tilt of the energy between them—but it was new, nonetheless. Invigorating. For once, Wilford felt confident the feeling went both ways—and both were curious to see where it went.

    Heels clicked from the desk, and Wilford turned around. The lady returned, and by her side stood Sean, an Irishman with a dark brown man-bun and a beard. An ivory collar hugged his throat, paired with a deep green vest and slacks, looking more like a high-class professor than the owner of a five-star hotel. His sharp blue eyes considered the mafia boss before him.

    "William," he said, accent thick. "It's been a while."

    Wilford's eye twitched at the name, and he straightened himself.

    "I need a few rooms," he slurred, motioning to the others. "No room service, nothing. No one can know we're here."

    Sean chuckled, a condescending sound. "Well, just about everyone knows yer here now," he said, glancing at the guests scattered across the lobby. "Bit reckless of you, might I add."

    Wilford gave a sarcastic smile and glared. "You owe me one," he said. "Remember?"

    "Yeah," said Sean, turning towards a keyboard and typing something. "And you've still got my boyfriend in prison."

    Wilford huffed with a smirk. "Things have been smoother without Anti and you know it."

    Sean rose a brow, both amused and resentful, as he finished typing.

    "I've only got two rooms available," he said, eyes sliding up. "How many nights will you be staying?"

    "As long as we need."

    Sean typed something again, but before he could confirm the rooms, he carefully inhaled, met Wilford's eyes, and leaned forward, folding his hands over the desk. His face darkened and his voice lowered.

    "I heard what happened, Will," he said, gaze serious. "I may owe you one, but I'm not risking this place for yer safety."

    Wilford's jaw hardened, fingers twitching, but he gave in. "Alright, fine," he sighed. "Just two nights, if you will."

    Sean held his gaze a moment longer, considering him, before finalizing the rooms. He motioned the lady forward, and she grabbed two keys, the golden metal rattling as she handed them over the desk.

    Wilford took them, the cold keys pressing against his palm. He glanced down at them and nodded at Sean. "Thank you," he said, turning away.

    "I'd say time is softening you, Wil," called Sean as Wil and the others headed off. "If you don't make a move soon, someone's going to take your place."

———

The elevator chimed as they reached the thirty-fourth floor, and Wilford led the way, resentment in every step. He went to the last door—room 3404—and shoved the keys inside, cursing all the while.

    "Can't believe him," he was hissing under his breath. "'Take my place,' who does he think he is?"

    Host sighed and sent Jim and Dark a glance. "Give us a minute."

    Jim nodded, and he and Dark watched as Host approached the mafia boss, standing close to try and calm them. A mouthful of curses later, and Host peeled away from Wilford, jangling his own set of keys.

    "Jim," he said, "you're sleeping with me." Host flicked his eye towards Dark. "You're with Wilford."

    Dark's lashes fluttered, and he stirred.

    "What?" he breathed. "Why?"

    This was what he wanted deep down, after all; a night alone with Wilford, a room alone with Wilford, where they didn't share a space with anyone else, and no one could interrupt them.

    Now that the possibility was actually there, his heart started to pound.

    Host walked past Dark and unlocked his door—room 3401—and rose a brow as he held it open.

    "Because," said Host, "you seem to be the only one who can calm him down these days."

    Dark stirred at that, and Jim carefully pulled away from him, smiling. "Night, Dark," he said. "And..." He waved his hands. "When I said for the two of you to get a room, uh—maybe just... keep it down—"

    Dark fumbled for a response. "I—we aren't—"

    "It's okay, Jim," said Host, his smirk palpable. "They're on the other side of the floor, so we won't hear anything."

    Dark's face flared red, and Jim laughed, rubbing the back of his neck.

    "Have fun," teased Jim, heading towards the room with Host. "See you tomorrow."

    Dark swallowed, and once Jim disappeared into the room, Host shut the door and slid the lock, leaving the businessman alone in the hall.

    Dark glanced over his shoulder, took a deep breath, and went into his and Wilford's room. He didn't know what to expect—figured Wilford would be too upset to say anything to him—so he went about his business quietly.

    He carefully locked the door and glanced around, the room opening up around him like a spacious luxury apartment. The lights were dim, warm, coating the embroidered carpet and the elegant walls in gentle shadows.

    There was a couch, a desk, a dresser; a barside with a small collection of alcohol; doors leading into a bathroom and a closet; a King bed draped in gold sheets; and glass doors at the far wall that led into a balcony, the golden rails reflecting the moonlight from outside.

    Dark looked around, but there was no sign of Wilford. His brows furrowed, and he carefully approached the half-open bathroom door, peering inside.

    Wilford was getting dressed, a pair of silk pajama pants hanging off his hips. Dark's heart skyrocketed in his throat, and while he knew he should look away—give Wilford his privacy—he was captivated by the sight.

    Wilford slid his shirt off, and Dark swallowed hard, the room going hot. His eyes lingered on the expanse of his collar bone, down his toned build and muscular arms. Scars littered his skin, old and new, and Dark felt the faint urge to touch him, to feel him under his palms.

Wilford reached for his pajama top on the counter, but before he touched it, he pulled his hand away, a smirk gracing his lips.

    "I heard you come in," he said, voice low, and Dark stilled, heat rising under his collar.

    Wilford's eyes flicked onto Dark's, and the look he gave the businessman only had him feeling hotter.

    "I'm—" He cleared his throat. "I didn't mean—"

    "It's okay," teased Wilford, stepping out of the bathroom. "I've seen you shirtless. It's about time I do the same."

    Dark smoothed a hand over his suit and turned away. Wilford was still shirtless.

"I shouldn't have been looking," he said. "It was inconsiderate of me."

    Wilford chuckled, and he ran a hand over Dark's shoulders from behind, down to his waist. His palm ghosted over Dark's wound as he pressed himself close.

    "Well, then I'd ask you to keep being inconsiderate," he taunted, breath hot in Dark's ear.

    Dark's face went hot, and Wilford lingered a moment before pulling away to put on his pajama top.

    "Bathroom's free," he said, walking off. "Unless you want to change in here. I wouldn't mind the show."

    He smirked at him, and Dark cleared his throat and grabbed a set of clothes from the dresser. All black, like always.

    "I'm fine," he said.

    Wilford watched the businessman disappear behind the bathroom door, and once it shut, he sighed, closing his eyes. Sean's words still simmered in the back of his head—a reminder of what everyone said, one way or another.

    'If you don't make a move soon,' rang Sean's voice in his head, 'someone's going to take your place.'

    The world watched as Mr. Edwards took a piece of Wilford's property, and now, they watched as he fell further down the rabbit hole.

    First, the ambush.

    Wilford grabbed his packet of cigarettes and crossed onto the balcony, the wind chilling him.

    Now, he thought, lighting up his cigarette at his lips, who knew what was coming for him.

    The smoke filled his lungs, hot in his chest, and he exhaled, closing his eyes to the bright city lights around him.

    He had to be ready.

...

Thank you all for your patience with me! I know I've been on and off with updates lately. Finals week has been a draaaag. I've got one more exam left, but after that, I'm freeeeee!! A week off for Winter Break, so I'm excited for that ;)

Tell me your thoughts! Winter break plans, even, I'd love to hear what y'all are planning. I know that I'm gonna stay home all week and sleep, eat, write, repeat 😂

Have a wonderful day/night!

Love, Vic xoxo