The night wrapped the Imperial Crest in silence. Rain had stopped hours ago, leaving the streets below slick and shining. Inside, the hotel glowed under soft amber lights, a sleeping giant unaware of the man moving quietly through its veins.
John Raymond wore plain black; the uniform jacket was replaced with a dark shirt. The silver key card Shack had given him rested in his hand, its emblem catching faint reflections from the hallway lights. The air was cool, humming faintly with the sound of distant generators. Every footstep seemed too loud.
He reached the basement service corridor, where only a few cleaning staff worked this late. He passed unnoticed, carrying a maintenance clipboard as a disguise. The elevator to the lower vault level required executive clearance; he swiped the card. A green light blinked, and the doors slid open.
When they closed behind him, the descent began. The elevator moved more slowly than usual, humming through layers of concrete. His reflection in the metal wall looked sharper, colder. The bellhop was gone. What stared back now was the man his enemies had created.
The doors opened to a corridor lined with motion sensors and cameras. He knew Shack's instructions by heart—move when the red light blinks, freeze when it turns white. He followed the rhythm, heart pounding with every step. At the end stood a thick metal door bearing the hotel's crest, two golden lions carved above a crown.
He swiped the card again. The lock clicked.
Inside, the vault smelled of steel and old paper. Rows of safety boxes filled the walls. In the centre stood a large table with a sealed cabinet beneath it. He switched on a small flashlight and approached. Another card slot waited there. When he inserted the key, the lock released with a soft hiss.
Within the cabinet lay a black folder bound with red tape. On its cover, in faded letters, were the words Raymond Holdings – Founding Documents.
His hands trembled slightly as he opened it. Inside were deeds, certificates, and letters bearing his father's signature. Proof of ownership. Proof of betrayal. Beneath the papers rested a smaller envelope marked Private: To My Son. The handwriting was familiar—the same from old photographs.
He unfolded it carefully.
If you are reading this, it means the empire I built has fallen into the wrong hands. Trust no one inside the board. One man among them caused the crash. He will come for you, too. But the name Raymond must not die. Build again from within. Be patient. The Crest will always be ours.
John's throat tightened. The ink had faded, but the words burned clear. His father had known. They had planned for this moment long before the end.
A faint beep interrupted the silence. He looked up—the elevator indicator was moving. Someone was coming.
He shut the folder, slid it under his jacket, and turned off the flashlight. The vault lights flickered once, then dimmed. He moved behind one of the file racks, breath shallow. The metal door opened with a low creak.
Footsteps. Slow, deliberate.
Through the slats, he saw Harrison step inside, flashlight in hand. His face was tense, eyes scanning the shadows. "Whoever accessed this place, you are making a grave mistake," he said into the darkness.
John held his breath. Harrison stopped near the table, noticing the open cabinet. He crouched, touched the edge, and cursed under his breath. "Security breach," he muttered, speaking into his phone. "Lock down this floor. Now."
A siren clicked on somewhere above, low but rising.
John moved silently along the side wall toward the emergency ladder that led to the maintenance vent. The alarm lights flashed red. Harrison turned at the noise. Their eyes met for half a second across the vault.
Recognition flared—shock, then fury.
John vaulted over a desk, sprinted to the ladder, and climbed. Harrison shouted, his voice echoing. "Stop! Guards, basement level!"
John reached the vent and pulled himself through just as footsteps thundered behind him. Metal rang out as a bullet ricocheted off the ladder rail. He crawled fast, the narrow tunnel forcing each movement into silence. The sirens blared louder, mixing with the sound of approaching security.
He emerged through a maintenance hatch near the loading dock, drenched in sweat but breathing steadily. Outside, rain began again, soft and relentless. He adjusted his jacket, hiding the folder beneath, and walked calmly into the shadows behind the building.
From the street above, security lights swept across the walls, but no one saw him slip into the alley.
---
By dawn, the hotel buzzed with rumours. Someone had triggered the basement alarm. Harrison blamed the night crew, threatening to fire half of them. Rita heard fragments of the chaos while serving coffee in the lobby. When she saw Harrison's pale face and furious stride, she knew the problem ran deeper.
John arrived later than usual. His uniform was pressed, his eyes calm. Rita approached cautiously. "Did you hear what happened last night?"
He shook his head. "No. What?"
"Security says someone broke into the vault."
He raised an eyebrow. "Strange. What could anyone want down there?"
She studied him, searching for something in his expression. "You seem too calm about it."
"Calm is useful," he said. "Panic never solved anything."
Before she could answer, Harrison entered the lobby. His gaze swept across the staff until it landed on John. For a moment, the noise of the room seemed to fade. Then Harrison turned away and walked toward his office, phone pressed to his ear.
Rita whispered, "He's watching you."
"I know," John said softly. "Let him."
He turned and walked toward the elevator. Inside his jacket, the folder rested against his chest like a heartbeat.
---
That evening, he met Shack in the same riverside café. The older man listened quietly as John placed the folder on the table.
"Well done," Shack said, flipping through the papers. "These are originals. With this, you can prove ownership to the board."
"There was also a letter," John said. "From my father."
Shack looked up. "What did it say?"
"That one of the board members was behind their deaths."
Shack's jaw tightened. "Then our suspicions were right. We will need to uncover who before the meeting."
John leaned back. "Harrison almost caught me."
"Then he knows someone is coming for him. Which means he will make mistakes."
Outside, thunder rolled across the river. John watched the reflections tremble in the window. "How long until the board arrives?"
"Two weeks," Shack replied. "That is all the time we have."
John nodded. "Then it begins now."
He stood, slipping the folder back into his coat. As he left the café, Shack called after him, "Remember, every move from here draws blood. Choose where to cut."
John paused at the door, rain misting against his face. "I intend to."
---
Back at the hotel, Harrison sat alone in his office, reviewing security footage. Frame by frame, he froze an image of a man slipping through the basement vent. The quality was grainy, but the silhouette was unmistakable. He zoomed in, eyes narrowing.
"Raymond," he whispered.
He leaned back in his chair, the faintest smile curling at his lips. "So, the ghost has teeth."
He pressed a button on the intercom. "Send Ms James to me."
Downstairs, Rita flinched when she heard his voice echo through the speaker. She looked toward the elevator, uncertain. John was nowhere in sight.
She hesitated only a moment before stepping inside and pressing the top floor button.
As the elevator doors closed, the soft chime sounded like the start of something irreversible.
—