The hallway outside Room 612 smelled like trouble—warm perfume and cigarette smoke that clung to the wallpaper like old sins. Devon stood there for a second, knuckles poised, wondering why the hell his chest felt tight. Then he exhaled, knocked twice, and the door swung open before his hand even fell back to his side.
Spice filled the frame like a dare. Her hair was a loose mess, lipstick sharp and fresh, dress short enough to look like a bad idea. She didn't say hello. She didn't ask why he was there. She just curled two fingers in his tie, yanked him inside, and slammed the door with her hip.
"Miss me?" she murmured, not waiting for an answer before her mouth was on his.
The room was soaked in red light, the kind that made shadows longer and skin warmer. Bass from some slow, dirty song pulsed faintly from a speaker on the nightstand. He kissed her back hard, one hand sliding into her hair, the other catching her waist. She tasted like something expensive and slightly illegal.
He didn't even notice his phone when he dropped it on the desk, screen down, skidding on the wood. All his focus was on the way she pushed him, walking him backward toward the bed, her nails grazing his jaw in a way that made his thoughts cut out entirely.
The phone lit up once, Quinn's name burning across the screen. The ringtone vibrated through the desk. Neither of them looked.
Spice pressed him down onto the mattress, straddling his hips with a smirk that said she was the one running this. Another kiss—deeper, hungrier. Devon's mind wasn't in Dusane anymore; it wasn't with Sage, or the case, or the blood he knew had been spilled tonight. It was here, in this hot, reckless moment, with a woman who smelled like trouble and moved like sin.
The phone lit again. Quinn, calling back. The glow hit the side of his face for a heartbeat before Spice turned his head with another kiss.
By the time the third call came, the sound might as well have been thunder in another city. He didn't care. Tonight wasn't about answering. Tonight was about forgetting.
************
The antiseptic sting in the air was the first thing Sage noticed when his eyes dragged open. A pale rectangle of light bled through the blinds, striping across the sheets. The second thing he noticed was the girl in the chair beside his bed—legs crossed, jacket half-slipped off her shoulder, looking like she owned the place.
"Hey, hero," she said, leaning forward with a small, knowing smile. "You saved my life back there. My brother's gonna lose his mind when he hears."
Sage's voice was a rasp. "You're welcome, I guess."
Her smirk softened. "No, really. Those men… they weren't just dangerous. They were ruthless." She paused, eyes flicking over him like she was measuring the weight of his injuries. "You didn't have to help me, but you did. So—thank you."
Before he could answer, she pulled her phone from her pocket, tapped the screen, and slid it toward him. "Here. Put your number in. Just so I can make sure you don't disappear before I buy you a drink… or before my brother sends someone to hand you a reward."
Sage hesitated, but typed it in. "Your brother's that generous?"
Her mouth curved into something sly. "Oh, you'll see. Rest now, detective."
She rose, brushing imaginary dust from her jeans, and slung her jacket over one arm. Her perfume lingered, a warm sweetness in the cold hospital room. At the door, she glanced back. "Get better soon." And then she was gone, her footsteps fading down the hall.
Sage let his head sink back into the pillow, exhaustion pulling at his eyelids. His phone sat on the bedside table, face-down, silent mode on.
It lit up once.
Quinn – calling…
Again.
Quinn – calling…
Then a message:
>save me<
The screen went dark.
Sage was already asleep.
Lily estate
Tina's lungs felt like they were ripping open. Every step burned, but the glow of the estate gates up ahead was enough to drag her forward. The alarms were still silent, the streets still dark. She was almost out.
She skidded to a halt at the exit, bent over, hands on her knees. A single, shaky breath of relief escaped her.
Then… she froze.
No Quinn.
Her mind flashed back to the blood, the gunshots, the way they'd split up inside. For a second she thought about bolting—she'd made it this far—but the thought of leaving Quinn in that hell sat wrong in her gut.
"Damn it," she hissed, spinning on her heel.
She tore back into the estate, feet pounding the brick paths. Every shadow looked like it was about to swallow her whole.
---
Margret Sanchez didn't even hear Tina's footsteps as she reached the alarm pole at the center of the courtyard. Her hands fumbled with the cover, the metal creaking open. She slammed her palm onto the red button—
—And her head snapped back in a spray of crimson before her body hit the ground.
High above, tucked into the shadowed slope of a rooftop, Jet Black lowered his rifle, his face unreadable. He was already sliding the next round in.
The alarm blared anyway. Too late.
---
Lights exploded on across the estate. People screamed awake, doors flew open, and the night shattered into pure chaos.
Allen was the first to greet them. Laughing like a man at a carnival, he lunged into the first fleeing family, shoving his knife up under a man's ribs, then swinging him around to knock a woman into the pavement. The wet crunch made him grin wider.
Jace moved like liquid violence—his chain snapping through the air, cracking into a guard's jaw so hard the man's legs gave way. Jace didn't stop, looping the chain around the neck, dragging the body across the stones until bone scraped.
Scar Face waded through the chaos like it was waist-deep water, machete in both hands, swinging at anything that moved. His face lit by firelight, he roared curses over the screaming.
Spiro darted between houses, sliding glass bottles with burning cloth into open doors. The flames took instantly, roaring up curtains and licking ceilings. He kept his camera rolling, whispering, "Beautiful… oh, that's perfect," every time a new blaze erupted.
And above it all, Jet Black remained a ghost, taking down anyone armed or trying to lead an escape. A head here, a spine there—silent, clean, absolute.
Somewhere, a single Molotov slipped and shattered against the wrong wall, and the fire leapt skyward, riding the wind.
Within minutes, Lily Estate was an inferno—heat blasting through the streets, black smoke choking the air, the screams folding into the roar of the flames.
Lily Estate – House 95
The estate sounded like a war zone.
Gunshots cracked in uneven bursts, some far away, others so close they rattled the windows. Somewhere in the distance, glass shattered, and a woman screamed — a high, sharp sound that sliced through the smoke-filled air. Men were shouting over each other, a mess of orders and panicked curses, the kind of noise you only hear when people know they're about to die.
Tina Rodrigo ran like hell.
She shoved past fleeing residents — a man clutching his bleeding arm, a crying child being dragged by a frantic mother — her boots slapping against the blood-speckled pavement. The smell of burnt wood, gunpowder, and something metallic filled her nose. A wall of black smoke rose behind her as a nearby house went up in flames.
For a second, she caught herself thinking, I'm not supposed to be here. But that second ended fast — someone fired again, bullets sparking against the ground just meters from her. She ducked, swerved past two bodies slumped by a gate, and kept moving.
---
Inside House 95
Quinn's hands were shaking — not out of fear, but from pure frustration.
Her phone screen glared back at her: Voicemail: Sage Marlowe.
"Hello, bitch or nigga, whatever you are — I'm busy, so drop your message like you'd drop your morals when you see money."
She pulled the phone away from her ear so fast it nearly flew across the room.
"Fucking Sage," she hissed, stabbing the screen to try Devon. No answer. No backup. No nothing.
The dining room was a mess. Chairs knocked over, plates shattered across the floor, a bottle of wine broken and bleeding red across the tablecloth. Smoke crept in through the open window, making the air thick and sour.
Quinn sat heavily in one of the half-broken chairs, her eyes flicking — almost unwillingly — to the man sprawled out on the floor. Silas. Motionless. The bastard still looked dangerous even unconscious, his jaw tight, his hand loose but inches from where a gun had rolled.
She muttered under her breath, "Why the hell am I babysitting you?"
---
The Door Blows Open
The slam was so loud Quinn's hand went to her knife before she even turned.
Tina filled the doorway, chest heaving, hair clinging to her forehead, jacket torn at the sleeve. She stopped dead when she saw Quinn. Her eyes widened like she'd just spotted a ghost.
"Ohhh, and I was planning on fighting you back then," Tina panted, one hand still on the doorframe, "thank God I didn't."
Quinn's eyebrows shot up. "Excuse me?"
"I'm just saying," Tina waved a hand, like that explained anything, "you don't die easy. I'm impressed."
Quinn stared, still half-suspicious. "How the hell did you know I was here?"
Tina's answer came without a blink. "Had a boyfriend in the estate."
Quinn leaned forward. "Bullshit—"
"—We should leave this hell first," Tina cut in, voice sharp. "Questions later, before we end up like everyone else out there."
---
Outside – Approaching Danger
The street was chaos, but two figures cut through it like wolves in a slaughterhouse. Jace and Scar Face moved slow, deliberate, their eyes scanning every door, every shadow.
"You sure it's House 95 he went into?" Jace's voice was low, but the way it carried over the dying noise outside made it sound colder.
Scar Face grinned, his scar pulling tight across his cheek. "Positive. And if he's in there… whoever's with him won't be leaving."
Their boots crunched over broken glass.
---
Back Inside
Tina had stopped talking. She was listening.
Quinn caught it too — the steady, heavy rhythm of footsteps on the pavement outside. They weren't running like everyone else. They were coming closer.
Tina's eyes met Quinn's.
Quinn's pulse picked up.
Neither spoke, but the air between them said it all.
If those men stepped inside, this wouldn't be a fight for pride or payback. This would be survival.
The light from the burning houses outside flickered against the walls, throwing their shadows long and sharp. Somewhere outside, someone screamed again — and the sound of boots on gravel grew louder.