CHAPTER 9 – "Old Money, New Murders"
The whiskey was older than the nation's last three presidents combined.
the quiet hush of a penthouse office that looked down on Dusane like it owned her, a crystal tumbler clicked gently against another. Light spilled in through bulletproof windows, casting golden streaks across velvet furniture and shelves lined with first editions and antique weaponry.
The TV played on low in the corner of the room. The screen showed a familiar rooftop, now barricaded with police tape and crawling with VCID officers like ants over a fresh kill.
> "...Zayne McQueen—Velvrai's nightlife czar, philanthropist, and known arms broker—was found dead today after falling from the rooftop of the Platinum Bloom Casino. Though initial reports suggested suicide, authorities now suspect foul play..."
The anchor's voice held the solemn fake of someone pretending to be sad.
> "...This marks the second high-profile death in under a week, following the murder of businessman Rafe Durov. V.C.I.D. sources suspect both deaths may be connected, possibly orchestrated by a larger underground group. The city reels, and the nation watches—waiting for answers."
The screen flicked to a live press conference.
Draya Castillo stood in a tailored black coat, her posture militant, her expression icy. Officers worked behind her, sweeping the rooftop with high-end tech, evidence markers fluttering in the breeze. Cameras flashed as she spoke:
> "Our investigators are coordinating across departments. I want the people of Velvrai to know—we will find whoever is responsible. No one escapes the Houndhouse."
Click.
The TV died.
"Brava," Jean-Luc drawled from his seat, swirling his whiskey lazily. "You could win awards."
Draya sat across from him, cool and composed in a matching glass chair. Her lips curled, barely. "You liked the performance?"
"I liked the lie."
Jean leaned forward, elbows resting on his knees, inspecting her like one might inspect a rare and venomous orchid. Behind him, Dusane's skyline shimmered in glass and sin. He wore a black suit that had never seen dirt, and shoes that could've bought someone's rent for three months. When Jean-Luc leaned forward, people tended to fall silent.
"I assume your dogs will sniff in all the wrong places?"
Draya reached for her drink, letting the silence drag. "They always do."
"Good. We can't afford attention. Zayne wasn't subtle."
"He was greedy," Draya corrected.
"And loud." Jean raised his glass again. "To silence."
She clinked his glass, her nails tapping against the crystal. "To shadows."
They both sipped, and for a second, the room felt like the eye of a hurricane—quiet, expensive, and lethal.
Then Jean said the name.
"Sage Marlowe."
Draya's brow lifted just enough to show recognition.
Jean continued, eyes narrowing. "He's been looking. Too deeply. He was at the Durov scene. He's poking around with that little forensic unit. Quinn, isn't it?"
Draya didn't flinch. "He's no longer a concern."
Jean's gaze sharpened.
"I've pulled him from the investigation," Draya added, her tone clipped. "Suspended him, in fact. Officially, for disobedience. Unofficially... for asking the wrong questions."
Jean sat back, staring at her for a beat. "You think that's enough?"
"He doesn't have access. No intel. No lab reports. No clearance." Her voice sliced through the air like a scalpel. "He's toothless now."
Jean sipped, contemplative. "Toothless dogs still bark. And sometimes... they bite the right person."
"I'll muzzle him," Draya said.
"I'd rather you put him down."
Draya didn't respond. Instead, she stood, crossed to the floor-length window, and looked out over Dusane. The city flickered like a dying neon god. Behind her, Jean stood too.
"You're forgetting," she said, not turning. "Sage Marlowe doesn't just sniff around because he's curious. He needs the truth. Obsession like that? It always ends in one of two ways."
Jean-Luc stepped beside her. "Remind me."
"Promotion..." She turned, meeting his eyes, cold and brilliant. "...or death."
Jean chuckled softly and raised his glass again.
"Let's make sure it's the latter."
The glasses clinked once more. The deal was sealed.
Behind them, the city of Velvrai kept moving—bloody, bright, and blind.
The underground lab was silent. No clicks, no keystrokes. Just the hum of a dusty ventilation unit and the hard truth glowing back at them from the screen.
Silas Moreau
— Full Name: Silas Ezra Moreau
— Known Offenses: Ballot box robbery, grand theft auto, assault, obstruction of justice.
— Incarceration Status: Multiple-time inmate.
— Prison Ranking: Flagged as one of Dusane Penitentiary's most dangerous and non-rehabilitative offenders.
A long record. Too long for someone who moved so quietly.
Sage stared, his face unreadable. Devon leaned back in his chair, letting out a slow breath. Quinn had her arms folded, eyes narrowed like she was still processing the weight of it all.
Sage finally broke the silence. "Draya needs to see this."
Quinn shot him a look immediately. "I don't think that's a good idea."
"Why not?"
"Because you just came back from suspension, Sage," she said flatly. "You're not supposed to be investigating anything."
Devon scoffed, dragging his hand down his face. Then he turned, lips curling just slightly. "Oh. Mr. Gummy Bears is a serial killer now?"
Sage didn't answer that. His jaw clenched.
"Dev," Quinn muttered in warning.
Sage exhaled and spoke low. "We're not doing this now."
Devon raised his brows. "Not doing what? Joking about how the guy who shoved you for a pack of candy might've also shoved a few people off rooftops?"
Quinn shook her head. "Okay. What do we do?"
Silence again. The tension stayed, buzzing beneath their skin.
No one had the answer.
Just three people in a cold lab, staring at a criminal record that shouldn't have belonged to a man with that much control.
The tires of Devon's car gave a tired screech as it rolled to a stop in front of the Houndhouse. Dusane's dying sunlight hit the windshield, casting golden lines across the brutalist slab of concrete and rust that made up VCID headquarters. Sage pushed the door open and stepped out, adjusting his coat. Quinn followed, heels clicking sharply on the sidewalk. Devon grunted as he slammed the driver-side door.
"I'm heading straight to Command," Quinn said, barely glancing at the two men. "But listen, Marlowe—whatever you do, don't breathe a word to Draya. About the glitch. Or the rooftop. Or him."
"Relax," Sage muttered, hands in his pockets. "I'm not suicidal."
"Could've fooled me," she said dryly, then disappeared into the west entrance.
Devon turned, walking toward the main Houndhouse lobby. "You got that look, man. That 'gonna-do-some-dumb-shit' look. Keep it cute." He nodded once and peeled off down the hallway.
Sage sighed and started toward his department's entrance. That's when he heard fast footsteps—sloppy, uneven, worried footsteps. Theo.
The moment he saw Sage, Theo sprinted over like he was dodging bullets.
"Jesus, bro! Where've you been? I've been calling your crusty little phone like ten times," Theo said, grabbing Sage by the elbow. "Draya stepped out earlier, thank God, but she just came back—and guess what? She brought a guest."
Sage blinked. "A guest?"
"A guest," Theo confirmed. "Suit, shiny shoes, dead eyes. You know the type. Come on before she notices you weren't clocked in."
They started moving quickly down the hallway, Theo still muttering about Sage's 'death wish schedule' and how Draya had the psychic ability to detect missing personnel just from a chair's temperature.
Then—CLANG.
A sharp metallic rattle echoed behind them.
Both men stopped.
Theo threw his hands up like he was under arrest. "What the hell was that?!"
Sage turned slowly. "You heard that, right?"
"Bro, if I didn't, then we're both haunted."
They stepped back toward the source of the noise, walking cautiously like two raccoons investigating a trash bin. They rounded the corner—
And there she was.
Tina Rodrigo, crouched like a damn goblin behind an old filing cabinet, holding a dented metal tin in one hand and a clipboard in the other. Her eyes widened like she'd just been caught summoning demons.
"Oh," Tina said quickly, standing up. "Hey. I was just…uh…"
Sage squinted. "Please. Please try to lie better than that. My ears deserve it."
"I—I dropped my hydration powder," she offered, lifting the tin like it was proof.
"Hydration powder," Sage repeated flatly.
"It's for electrolytes."
Theo tilted his head. "Is it…for rats?"
Tina's smile was all gums. "Anyway! Gotta go finish inventory!"
She walked off, hips stiff, clipboard upside down, hair bouncing like she had dignity.
Once she was out of earshot, Sage stood frozen, blinking like he'd just survived a jump scare. Theo broke first, letting out a wheeze of laughter that bounced off the hallway walls. Sage followed, head tilted back, laughing so hard it turned into a cough.
"Bro…" Theo choked, "She was straight-up posted behind that cabinet like a gremlin with a mic pack."
"She's the reason we don't have security clearance in the damn bathroom," Sage said through his teeth, wiping a tear from his eye.
Theo nodded. "She logs our flushes, I swear to God."
Sage stared down the hallway Tina had vanished into, face suddenly serious again. "She's a snitch. A professional, government-funded, clipboard-carrying, dusty-ass snitch."
Theo cackled. "Not 'dusty-ass.'"
"I mean it," Sage muttered. "She's got microphones planted in the air vents. I bet she sleeps in one."
They shared one final chuckle before pushing through the main doors, shoulders brushing.
Inside, the Houndhouse buzzed with quiet tension—unaware that Tina, somewhere behind them, was probably already filing a report.