Thin fingers skated over the edge of a glass, which glinted under the moonlight.

    A woman sat on the balcony with her legs crossed, the view of the entire city stretched before her like glittering stars. She eyed the skyscraper on Fifth Street, which glowed like a golden pillar, standing out against the rest of the cluster of buildings.

    Her black lips curled into a smirk.

    Footsteps clicked behind her, and a man named Blank appeared in the corner of her vision, gazing out at the city. His features were gaunt and blue-grey, his eyes hollow and his figure swamped in an ill-fitting suit. Blood specked his face.

    "Celine," he greeted softly.

    The woman didn't bother glancing at him in greeting.

    "Well?" she breathed, bringing the glass to her lips. Champagne slid past her throat with an easing chill. "How are things going down there?"

    Blank walked forward and rested his elbows on the glass panel railing, a breeze rustling his swept-back hair.

    "Better than expected," he said with a withdrawn voice—like he was scared to speak, or insecure about his voice. He gazed over his shoulder and met Celine's sharp, black eyes. "It's going to be interesting, that's for sure."

    Celine smiled coyly, and she stood up in a fluid motion, heels clicking as she walked towards the railing. Black silk dripped down her body like liquid, accentuating her every curve and angle. The fabric fluttered in the breeze like a shadow.

    "It's about time," she said, sipping her glass, "that I've done this."

    Blank glanced back at the city, the lights twinkling in his eyes like stars.

    "Will you kill him?" he murmured.

    Celine smiled, and she rested her elbows on the railing. She glanced down at the city below them, noting the pitch black of the alleyways. How they looked more menacing in the night, and yet—despite being unable to see anything in them—how they stirred with a dangerous, coiling life.

    "No," she said carefully, voice sly. "Not yet."

    She held out a hand and gestured with her fingers, and Blank slid a gun out of his holster and set the weapon in her palm. It sagged in her grip, and she tested its weight, the cool hiss of silver promising on her skin.

    She smiled.

    "Tonight," she breathed, running her thumb along the grip, "we'll simply observe." She brought the gun up to the horizon and closed an eye. A thrill raced down her spine when she imagined Mr. Edwards' face behind the sights, fear in his eyes. "I want him to know who I am—and know the damage he's done—before I kill him."

    She glanced at Blank through thick lashes, a strand of black hair falling before her eyes. He glanced at her, gaze unsteady, wavering. Celine handed the gun back to him, but even as Blank slipped it back into his holster, it was obvious who still held the power. A power that outmatched the weight of a gun.

    A woman's grace, amplified by the whisper of danger.

    "Come," said Celine, dropping her glass down the balcony carelessly. She didn't wait to hear it shatter all those stories below—couldn't, even if she tried. The city was always so loud, beating with life and noise.

She turned into the penthouse, and Blank followed, stepping over dead bodies.

    "It's time to go."

———

The streets vibrated with a heavy bass, and bright lights streamed from the skyscraper on Fifth Street. It looked much more impressive in the night, with its lacing gold designs and sleek architecture glowing like stars.

The venue was already brimming with people, all downed in evening attire that glittered and shined. A bouncer checked the invitation list and let streams of people in, hand motioning towards the open glass doors.

Mr. Edwards welcomed guests as they entered, perusing the grand foyer with a drink in hand. Mark kept a safe distance away (the guests wouldn't much appreciate him looming at Edwards' shoulder), but his eyes never left Dark's figure, focused and sharp. With the growing density of people, a second's distraction could take the billionaire out of his sight.

And with the possibility of a rampant mafia boss barging in, he couldn't afford to sidetrack. Especially when he was one of the only guards to watch Dark. Half of the candidates denied.

As more guests streamed in, the noise in the building grew. Laughter echoed through the high-ceilings, the air glittering with champagne flutes and jewelry and bodies clustering close.

Mark was used to events like this—the thick crowds, the endless civilians pacing to and fro, the noise. But with the knowledge of Dark's life most inevitably in danger, he couldn't help but stress out.

As Mark scanned his surroundings—checking for hostility, malintentions—while simultaneously watching his boss, Dark seemed unfazed. For a man who despised these sort of things, he sure looked upbeat. Charming, like he always did. A sly smile and a glint of his eye, a few crooning words to influence whoever he spoke to.

A mask that he always hid behind.

Mark always did wonder what Dark was like, when he wasn't under the pressure of all those eyes.

After a while, Dark took a break from welcoming the guests and walked towards Mark, smiling fondly.

"It's certainly a turnout," he said, voice suave. Clear despite the culmination of chatter. "Don't you think?"

He motioned towards the party with his glass, and Mark huffed through his nose, managing a smile.

"Yeah," he said, sparing a glance at the bodies around them. He kept his attention pinned on Dark. "A bit too much of one."

Dark hummed, and he tilted the glass to his lips, sipping at red wine. Mark did his best not to stare, but he always failed, in the end. He went hot under his collar. How could one man be so mind-numbingly handsome?

"Well, if anything goes wrong," said Dark, "it'd make a scene. All these people, they'll talk." He gazed at Mark through his lashes, and the bodyguard cleared his throat, trying to will away the heat in his face. "I don't think Warfstache would want that."

Mark huffed and shook his head. "I don't know about that," he said. "He's unpredictable."

Dark smirked and took another sip of wine. "Like Russian Roulette," he whispered to himself, and when Mark saw the eager shine in his eyes, his spirits fell.

His ignorance would kill him.

———

The Cadillac rolled to a stop a few blocks away from Fifth Street, and Wilford stared out the back window, his heart beating with excitement. He could feel the thrill under his skin. The anticipation. The buzz of music and the flashing lights from the party ahead that only fueled his energy.

    "Remember," said Host, opening the car door and sliding his seat forward. "This is supposed to be a conversation to get your property back."

    Wilford popped a new lolly in his mouth—cherry flavor—and climbed out the car. He sucked on it as he turned towards Host and smirked at him.

    "No promises," he said with a wink. When Host opened his mouth, in disbelief, Wilford laughed. "I'm kidding," he said, waving a hand. "You just let me do my thing, and I'll be back by midnight." He leaned over and met Jim's gaze from the driver's seat, raising a brow. "Can you boys behave while I'm gone?"

    "The question is if you can," Host chided, lips twitching up in a rare smirk. Wilford chuckled, and he smoothed down his fur coat.

    "Never," he sang. Host sent him a glance, and when he returned to the car and shut the door, Wilford headed down the sidewalk, eyes shifting over his surroundings like a wolf selecting its prey.

    He didn't notice the police car slowing to a stop on a different street.

———

The police car shifted into park.

    Detective Abe took a deep breath, and he exhaled as he leaned forward, getting a better look at the building on Fifth Street. The golden lights streamed into the car, highlighting his and Agent Nelson's figures.

    "Well shit," he breathed, knuckles white on the wheel. "How are we supposed to find him in all that?"

    Amy shifted in the passenger seat, and she stowed her gun away in a clutch purse. Her red dress sparkled with every movement, framing her body perfectly.

"I'm not sure," she said, curls falling past her shoulders. Abe felt underdressed next to her, sporting a second-hand suit. "But we have all night to look."

Abe nodded, and he climbed out of the car and shut the door, the sound muffled by the noise of the city and the party. Pedestrians walked down the sidewalk, too distracted by the lights on Fifth Street to notice the police car.

Amy shut the door and circled around the car, her flats padding against the asphalt. She would never be caught wearing heels. For her, fashion meant if you couldn't run away or survive an apocalypse in it, it wasn't worth wearing.

Flats and a flashy dress were pushing it close.

"Ready?" she mused, offering an arm to the detective. Abe nodded, and he hooked his arm with hers, leading them towards the vibrant party. Towards the danger.

He rested his free hand on the concealed gun at his hip, just in case.

———

"Mr. Edwards," greeted that confident, suave voice through the swelling noise of the party.

    Dark turned around, and he met eyes with Deja Dumont, dressed in a silk black jumpsuit. It was certainly the least flaunting of the other outfits he'd seen all night, but Dumont always made up for her simple outfits with her assertive, bold personality.

    "Madam Dumont," he said. "You look stunning."

    Deja smiled, her eyes glinting, and she bowed her head. "Thank you," she said. She gave Dark a once-over and nodded, as if pleased. "I'd say white suits you, but it makes you less threatening." She smirked, and Dark returned her playful air with a chuckle. "The women are sure to hit on you now, Mr. Edwards. Or men. Whatever you prefer."

    Dark didn't respond to that; the public didn't know about his preference for men, and he preferred to keep it that way. He motioned to the party with his glass, instead.

    "It was a good idea, this party," he said, carefully sipping his wine. "I wouldn't have done anything, if it weren't for you."

    Deja's eyes glittered with trouble—that worry that didn't suit her—but with Dark glancing away, he didn't notice.

    Deja smiled and nodded. "Of course," she said, giving a quick sweep of the others crowding the building. As if she were searching for someone. Hoping they wouldn't be there.

    She took a deep breath, and she eyed Dark, leaning forward.

    "Has anyone visited you lately?" she said, lowering her voice. She plucked a champagne flute from a passing tray. "Since our last meeting?"

Dark caught sight of Mark—who still watched him—before turning back to Deja. He rose a brow at her.

"You mean Warfstache?" he said.

Deja's face hardened, and she nodded. Dark had to suppress the confusion bubbling through him at her line of question.

Mark was already suspicious of her, due to her misleading intentions. First, the warning about Warfstache. Next, the suggestion to throw this party. And now, her uneasy questions.

What was her goal here?

"No," said Dark, sparing a glance at the doors far off—as if Warfstache would walk in right then and there. "He hasn't."

He watched as a brunette woman in a red dress, accompanied by an irritable man, walked inside. His eyes flicked back onto Dumont.

"That's good," she was saying. She sipped her champagne, then smiled, all caution leaving her body. "Well, if you would excuse me, Mr. Edwards," she said, "I'm going to enjoy this party of yours."

Dark smiled, and he bowed his head. As she walked off into the crowd of people, stopping to greet a few faces, Mark sidled up beside him. Dark didn't even notice he was there until he glanced over.

"I don't trust her," said Mark sourly, glaring in the direction she'd gone.

Dark hummed, and he glanced down, swirling the wine in his glass. It was almost empty.

"Many people can't be trusted in this industry," he said. He glanced at Mark and smiled. "We've built everything on lies."

He held out an arm and clapped Mark on the shoulder, pulling him close. Mark's breath caught at the contact—an extremely rare gesture ever shown by the billionaire—and glanced at him, eyes wide. It felt so weird, with his body pressed right up against Dark's side. Warm. He could feel his toned muscle beneath that white suit.

"Come on," said Dark, leading them through the crowd of people with a smirk. "Why don't we get you a drink?"

"I-I'm on duty, sir—"

"It's fine," said Edwards. "If there's anything worse than a bodyguard who can't focus, it's one that's on edge."

———

Wilford lingered near the front doors, watching as Detective Abe and a woman in a red dress stepped inside and disappeared into the flurry of people.

    He hadn't expected him to be here, but no matter. He would trick the FBI like he always did. For now, he would have to stay out of their sight and lay low.

    He grinned at the thought, pulling the lollipop out of his mouth.

    Please. Lay low? Not in a million years.

    Wilford glanced at the bouncer, lighting up at the sight of a familiar face. He cut the line and grinned, ignoring the protests behind him.

    "Bob!" he shouted, meeting the bouncer's eyes. "How's it going, old friend?"

    Bob's brows rose, and under the influence of Wilford's electrifying energy, he let out a laugh. "Wilford?" he said, eyes flitting across his face. "What are you doing here?"

    "What do you think?" slurred Wilford, popping the lolly back in his mouth. "To have a good time."

    Bob waved a hand towards the doors without a second thought, ignoring the glares from the other patrons in line.

    "Go on in," he said, smiling. "I think Mr. Edwards is waiting for you, actually."

    Wilford did a double-take at that, but he didn't let it show. Instead, he grinned and sent Bob a wink, then slipped into the doors. The noise grew louder, and he scanned the venue, the energy of all the people and their chatter fueling him.

    Mr. Edwards... waiting for him?

    He shifted the lollipop in his mouth and grinned, chest tingling with anticipation.

    How interesting.

Then he dipped into the sea of people, and searched for Dark Edwards.

...

Well, well, well... the anticipated meeting is soon to come... 😳😳😳

Thank you so much for reading, and have a wonderful day!

Love, Victor