The Vespera Hotel's seventh-floor hallway stretched before them like a tunnel to hell—narrow, shadow-choked, lit only by flickering sconces that cast long, trembling shapes on the blood-red carpet. Every footstep echoed like a drumbeat. Every breath felt stolen.
Leonel moved like a storm barely contained shoulders tight, fists clenched at his sides, knuckles white. His jaw was set, eyes burning with a fury so deep it had gone silent. He didn't speak. Didn't need to. Cassian's name was carved into every rigid line of his body.
Aiden walked beside him, quieter, sharper his gaze slicing through the dimness, taking in everything: the too-polished floor that reflected their distorted silhouettes like ghosts, the oppressive weight of the walls pressing in, the faint hum of the elevator shaft like a held breath. He wasn't just walking to a room. He was walking into a trap. And he knew it.
They stopped outside Room 20.
The number glowed faintly, cold and final.
