The stairs to the third floor creaked under Ariana's bare feet. Each step felt heavier than the last, like the weight of what she was about to see was already coiling around her spine. Brandon walked ahead, silent and composed, but she could see the tension in his shoulders—he was bracing for something too.
He stopped in front of a tall, black door at the end of the hallway.
"You sure?" he asked, his voice quiet, unguarded.
"No," she said. "But I want to know."
He unlocked it with a key from around his neck, then pushed it open.
The room was…red.
Not blood red. Not violent.
But dark, rich, wine-red walls, lit by the soft glow of gold sconces. It was windowless. Soundproof. At first glance, it almost looked like a high-end lounge—low velvet furniture, polished floors, art on the walls. But there was something else here. Something darker.
The air was different. Heavier.
Ariana stepped inside slowly.
Brandon didn't follow her right away.
She turned to look at him. "What is this?"
He exhaled. "This is where I go when I can't be the version of myself the world sees."
She walked in further, eyeing the thick black curtains that clearly hid reinforced walls. A tall cabinet in the corner was locked. There were faint scratches in the floor near the far wall—like something heavy had been dragged.
"What do you do in here?" she asked.
He closed the door behind him. The soft click echoed.
"I don't torture anyone, if that's what you're thinking," he said. "Not anymore."
She raised an eyebrow.
Brandon walked to the center of the room and looked around like it was a confession box.
"I used to come here after kills. After missions. When I still did my own dirty work. I'd drink, sit in silence, sometimes scream into the walls. This is the only place in my world that doesn't record me."
Her brows pulled together. "You have cameras on yourself?"
He gave a humorless smile. "Always. Except here."
She sat down on one of the velvet couches, letting her fingers trace the armrest. "Why show me this?"
"Because you don't trust me. And I don't blame you. But if we're going to survive what's coming, you need to know all of me. Even the parts that aren't palatable."
She tilted her head. "And this room…is the real you?"
"It's the part of me I hate," he said softly. "But it's also the part I protect everyone from."
Ariana didn't speak for a moment. Then: "Why did you stop doing your own dirty work?"
He paused. "Because I killed someone I shouldn't have."
The silence thickened.
She didn't push. Didn't ask who. But something in her chest tightened. Because for the first time, Brandon didn't sound like a machine made of logic and vengeance.
He sounded like a man with blood on his soul.
He sat beside her—not close enough to touch, but close enough that she felt the gravity of him.
"Do you regret what you've done?" she asked.
He looked down at his hands. "No. Regret requires believing it could've gone differently. I don't believe in alternate endings. Only consequences."
Ariana leaned back, the velvet cool against her skin. "Then why protect me? Why not let me face the consequences too?"
He turned to her, jaw tense. "Because you didn't ask for any of this. You didn't cheat. You didn't steal. You didn't betray. You loved the wrong people and trusted the wrong friends. That doesn't make you guilty. It makes you human."
She looked at him, heart thudding.
"Would you ever kill for me?" she asked before she could stop herself.
He didn't hesitate.
"I already have."
Her breath caught.
She didn't know if she should be horrified or flattered.
Maybe both.
He leaned forward, elbows on his knees, hands clasped. "This room is proof that I'm not a good man, Ariana. But I won't lie to you. I won't use you. And I will never let anyone touch you again."
A long beat passed before she whispered, "Even if I leave you?"
His eyes lifted to meet hers. "Even then."
There was a knock at the main floor door—sharp and fast, not urgent, but deliberate.
Brandon stood instantly. "Stay here."
She caught his wrist before he moved. "Don't get killed trying to be my hero."
He gave her a look that almost resembled warmth. "I don't die that easily."
Then he was gone.
She waited, alone in the red room.
Minutes passed.
Ariana got up and moved to the corner cabinet.
It was still locked.
But something about it called to her.
She knelt down, inspecting the edges. There was a keyhole… and scratches near the base.
Before she could make sense of it, Brandon returned.
His expression was tight, unreadable.
"Who was it?" she asked.
He didn't answer right away. Instead, he walked to the liquor cart and poured a drink.
Only then did he say, "A man claiming to be James's brother."
She froze. "James… doesn't have a brother."
"I know."
She stood. "What did he want?"
Brandon drained the glass in one motion. "Said he came to warn me. That James is going to try to take you back."
Her stomach sank. "Take me back? He doesn't get to just—"
"He's not thinking rationally. And if he's tied to what's happening behind the scenes, it means we're on a clock now."
Ariana moved closer. "So what do we do?"
Brandon turned toward her, his eyes darker than before.
"We do what I should've done a long time ago. We end it."