The door to the VIP lounge clicked shut behind Layla, sealing her away from the deafening pulse of the nightclub. The shift was immediate. Gone was the throb of bass, the press of sweat and perfume; here, the air was cold, thick with silence and the weight of old calculations. Memory hung in the atmosphere like dust on untouched shelves.
Books towered in mahogany cages that stretched up the paneled walls, dark and dignified. Maps unfurled across one side of the room—stitched with threads, pinned with brittle notes, yellowed at the edges with age and obsession. Headlines from decades past were tacked in careful, fanatical lines: "Trade Route Collapses After Fire,""Southeast Elections Disrupted by Scandal,""Private Security Firm Indicted."
Beyond the heavy desk, a tall man stood with his back to her, arms folded neatly behind him, studying the map as though he were one revelation away from solving the world itself.
"Ahem," Layla said, slicing the stillness with her voice.
He didn't turn. "Layla." The name was not a greeting, not even an acknowledgement—merely a stated fact. "I assumed you'd be late. Or not come at all."
She stepped forward, removing a thick envelope from inside her coat. She placed it on the edge of the desk with practiced finality. It landed with a soft thud, the paper bending slightly beneath the weight of cash inside.
"So," he said, still facing the wall, "do you mind telling me why you're here? Forgive me, but I doubt this is a sentimental visit to your dear old great-uncle Seymour."
"You know exactly why I came."
At last, he shifted his gaze slightly, eyes flicking toward the envelope without moving for it.
"Punctual. Predictable. Traits your grandfather never managed to pass down to anyone."
"He's more of a man than you'll ever be," she snapped.
Seymour turned—just enough to show the edge of his face, sharp and pale in the lamplight. One eye slid toward her, unreadable. "And yet here you are. Paying his debts. Cleaning his messes. Giving your life away in installments for the ghost of a man who—"
"—is still my family," Layla said, voice tight with effort. "I don't care how much you hate him or what happened between you two. He raised me. He's all I have."
"And now," Seymour murmured, "he's all I charge."
He finally approached the desk, opening the envelope with quiet, clinical ease.
"You've almost paid it off," he said, counting without looking at her. "Two more payments, and you're free. Or as free as any of us ever get."
Her lip curled. "I'm not doing this for freedom."
He raised a brow but said nothing.
"I'm doing this because you ruined him," she hissed. "You stood by while he drank himself hollow. You smiled while the family fell apart. You held the leash the whole time—and now you want me to thank you? For your patience?"
A dry, hollow laugh escaped him. It sounded more like a cough than mirth.
"I'm not looking for thanks. Least of all from you. As for your grandfather… he ruined himself long before I intervened. I offered him a deal. He took it. That was his choice."
"You offered him poison," she spat. "And now you're shocked he choked on it?"
"I gave him power. He simply couldn't carry it."
Layla stepped closer, fists clenched tight at her sides.
"You want to talk about power?" she said. "You've turned this place into a kingdom of ash. Paper trails, blackmail, blood money. And for what? So you could sit in your tower, surrounded by secrets and skeletons, pretending the world owes you something."
Still, he said nothing.
"You could've helped him," she whispered. "Just once. You could've been decent. But I guess decency's a currency you never bothered to trade in."
Silence stretched between them, tight as a wire.
Then Seymour finally spoke, his voice low and measured. "Do you want to know why I never helped him, Layla?"
Her eyes narrowed.
He turned fully now, and the lamp cast its light across his face.
She flinched.
The right side of Seymour's face was a ruin of old scars and twisted skin. It looked melted, as though time itself had tried to erase him. The eye was clouded, the lid limp. His mouth dragged downward in a permanent sneer, pulled by tissue that no longer obeyed.
"I didn't always look like this," he said, almost softly. "But your grandfather—my brother—beat me to a pulp for money. For power. Then he burned me and walked away while I screamed. No doctor could fix me. And no one in our so-called family came to my defense. Not one."
Layla opened her mouth, but no sound followed.
"I spent years trying to understand why I lost. But it didn't matter. I lost everything. He won. And in winning, he abandoned me. Cast me out. So I built something else. Something my own. And now, when I'm on the cusp of reclaiming what I should've had all along, you have the audacity to question why I didn't help him?"
His voice rose, cracking under the weight of long-buried fury. He leaned forward, elbows resting on the desk like anchors.
"I let him fall," he said. "Let the empire rot around him. And I made damn sure that if anyone tried to rebuild it, they'd know whose hands still held the deeds."
"And no matter how hard you try to help him—help the company, the family—I'd wager Blackwood Tower won't even be standing by the end of the week."
Layla swallowed. Her anger faltered, replaced by a sick, reluctant understanding.
"You're sick," she whispered.
"No," he replied. "I'm spiteful. There's a difference."
She turned sharply, her coat snapping behind her like a banner in retreat. But his voice chased her to the door.
"You should be careful, Layla. You're sharp—but loyalty makes fools of even the cleverest. Just ask your grandfather."
She paused at the threshold, back straight.
"Maybe," she said, without looking back. "But I'd rather be a fool than whatever you've become."
Then she was gone. The door closed with a soft, final click, and Seymour remained alone in his empire of shadows, stitched maps, and blistered ghosts.
Rain began to trace delicate rivulets down the nightclub's smooth glass windows as Layla ascended the bleak metal stairway. Each sharp clack of her heels echoed off the iron steps with an unpleasant metallic sting, the sound grating enough to quicken her pace—for the sake of her ears, if nothing else.
The air grew colder with each level she climbed, the bass of the music below softening to a distant thrum. Neon lights bled through the rain-slicked glass, turning the world outside into a smear of color and movement. The city never slept. Not really. It simply changed masks.
At the top of the stairwell, Layla pushed open a narrow exit door and stepped into a shadowed balcony that wrapped around the tower's summit. From here, the skyline stretched wide and endless, jagged and humming. She drew her coat tighter around her and exhaled, watching her breath bloom white in the air. Her hands trembled slightly—from cold or rage, she wasn't sure.
Seymour's words still echoed in her mind, sharp and unyielding. The image of his scarred face lingered behind her eyes like a burn.
"You should be careful, Layla. Loyalty makes fools of everyone eventually."
She scoffed aloud at that, resting her elbows on the rusted railing. "And yet I'm the one climbing rooftops for him," she muttered, more to the rain than to herself.
A soft sound behind her broke the solitude.
Footsteps. Barely audible. Too deliberate to be the wind.
She spun around, hand already halfway to the knife tucked beneath her coat. But the figure who stepped from the shadows didn't reach for a weapon. He simply lifted his hands in peace, the black mask obscuring his face until he tugged it down.
Caspian.
"Are you serious?" she barked. "What the hell are you doing here? Did you follow me?"
He shrugged, unbothered by her tone. "Technically, yes. Camael told me to."
Layla narrowed her eyes. "So you thought tailing me through half the city and breaking into a nightclub was a good idea? Gods, you're weird."
"You weren't exactly subtle," he countered. "Besides, it wasn't a choice. Andrew and Camael were busy, and you were acting… different. You didn't tell anyone where you were going. That usually means trouble."
She sighed, turning back to the skyline. "So you followed me through the city, snuck past club security, and somehow ended up on the rooftop—what, you flew up here or something?"
"No wings. I climbed the tower."
She blinked. "You what?"
"I climbed it," he repeated, deadpan.
Layla stared at him. "You're insane."
"It worked," he said with a shrug. "Didn't want to kick down any doors."
She shook her head, a reluctant smirk forming. "You're an idiot."
"Maybe," Caspian said. "But I'm an idiot who got to you."
He stepped beside her, resting his arms on the railing, mimicking her stance.
"Who was the man? The one who walked you to the VIP suite."
Layla's face darkened. "No one important."
"He looked important. To you."
She hesitated. "He's family. Seymour. My great uncle."
"Didn't look like a family visit."
Layla's lips thinned. "It wasn't."
Caspian watched her closely. "You paid him. Why?"
She didn't answer.
"Is he threatening you?"
"No," she said quietly. "He's threatening someone else. Someone I owe."
"Your grandfather."
She turned to him. "Don't pretend you understand. You don't."
"Then help me understand."
She took a slow step toward him. "What do you know about doing things alone? You were adopted by my grandpa's friend and tagged along with them like some obedient puppy. You've never had to carry anything by yourself."
Caspian didn't flinch. Rain darkened the ends of his hair, the droplets making his coat glisten like oil in moonlight. "You think I don't know what alone feels like? Even when I was surrounded by people, I wasn't with them. I was tolerated. Not loved. Not known. Just… convenient."
Layla faltered.
He looked out across the city. "You can be in a room full of voices and still feel like you're buried under silence. That's alone."
She frowned. "Where did you come from?"
"Somewhere I had to leave behind."
"That's not an answer."
"It's the only one I have."
Layla stepped in front of him. "Why can't you just be honest? What are you hiding?"
His jaw tightened. "It's not about honesty. It's about damage. You get tired of reopening wounds. Eventually, you stop explaining how you got them."
"So what, I'm supposed to trust you while knowing nothing about you?"
Caspian met her gaze. "I'm not asking you to trust me. I'm asking you to not ask me questions"
Caspian's eyes held hers with steady intensity, unyielding yet not unkind. There was an unspoken weight behind his words, a plea buried beneath the surface—an invitation to accept his presence without demanding explanations he wasn't ready to give. The rain traced quiet paths down the glass behind them, a muted backdrop to the fragile truce forming in the silence between them.
"Come on. Let's get out of here."
"What, just like that?"
"Yes."
She stared at his hand. Then, with a reluctant sigh, placed her fingers in his.
He led her through the door, down the stairwell. The lights flickered overhead, casting their shadows long on the damp concrete walls.
As they began their descent, Layla's breath caught sharply in her throat. The dim emergency lights flickered weakly, casting long, wavering shadows across the narrow corridor. Her eyes adjusted to the gloom, and then she saw them—bodies. Dozens of them. Slumped against walls, sprawled across the cold concrete floor in twisted heaps. Some still clutched weapons, their fingers frozen mid-grip, witnesses to a violence that had come and gone in a heartbeat. Most had never even had a chance to raise their arms in defense.
Her heart pounded fiercely as the sick realization settled over her. The lifeless forms stretched ahead like a grim gauntlet through the service corridors of the club. The faint scent of gunpowder and iron hung in the stale air, sharp and metallic.
She halted abruptly, her hand gripping Caspian's arm for balance. "Caspian—what happened here?" Her voice was barely more than a whisper, tinged with shock and disbelief.
He didn't answer right away. When he finally met her eyes, the warmth she had glimpsed earlier had vanished, replaced by a chilling hardness. "They got in the way," he said flatly, voice stripped of any softness.
Layla pulled her hand free, her wide eyes searching his face. "You—"
"I didn't come here to hurt anyone," Caspian interrupted firmly. "But I wasn't going to let anyone hurt you either."
The silence that followed was oppressive, as if the weight of the dead pressed in around them. Then, his voice dropped to a quiet warning: "I told you—I don't leave people behind."
Without another word, he resumed walking down the corridor.
Layla followed, speechless, her gaze flickering repeatedly to the still bodies as the darkness of the club swallowed them whole, the echo of their footsteps swallowed by the cold silence.