The last staircase—a staff route meant for hauling food and supplies—offered us a straight, unbroken path. No twists, no detours. Just a brutal, claustrophobic climb that spat us out onto the twenty-ninth floor like it couldn’t get rid of us fast enough. Small blessing.

The grimy stairwell and its peeling paint gave way to a temple of opulence. Polished marble gleamed underfoot like a mirror daring you to slip, while velvet carpets devoured every sound beneath their plush weight. Above, sapphire chandeliers glittered like smug overseers, casting their light over a room drowning in gold trim—wealth flaunting itself with the kind of arrogance that didn’t need to apologize.

The air here wasn’t just scented; it was weaponized. Perfumed ambition, old money, and the faint metallic tang of a room too pristine to feel empty clung to every breath. Blood and smoke, still stubbornly tagging along with us, stood out against the untouched decadence like cigarette ash on a wedding gown. Slot machines, silent and cold, reflected the gold from the chandeliers in eerie, lifeless halos. Behind the sprawling bar, rows of crystal-clear liquor bottles sat untouched, like trophies of a party that never happened.

I checked my gun—three bullets left. That and my sword would have to be enough.

“Too quiet,” Al muttered, raising his last revolver—a long-barreled six-shot that gleamed under the faint light. By my count, he had five rounds left. His knuckles were white against the grip, his tension palpable, a coiled spring ready to snap.

His words lingered in the air, sharp and heavy, as if the silence itself was afraid to swallow them completely.

We moved slowly, each step deliberate. The carpet swallowed every sound, amplifying the quiet until it felt suffocating. Frank stirred against me, a faint hum of tension vibrating through the air. Whether it was his nerves or the subtle edge of hunger, I couldn’t tell. I hadn’t eaten or even needed a vial since devouring the demon. But now, for the first time, I felt it—the pull, gentle at first, like a whisper at the back of my thoughts, growing louder with every breath.

I stretched my senses, but something was blocking them, blurring them.

Do you feel that, Jack?

Yeah, feels like too much cheap wine. I replied.

We are getting close.

The unease in my gut mirrored his. The room wasn’t just quiet; it practically screamed trap.

A thunderclap came without warning.

The first shot—armor-piercing, by the looks of it—slammed into Al’s chest, the impact throwing him back like a ragdoll into the aisle. He hit the ground hard, the sound echoing louder than the gunfire.

Blood blossomed across his shirt, dark and wet, spreading too fast for comfort. He didn’t move. Didn’t groan. Just lay there, still and silent.

“Al!” I shouted, diving behind a slot machine as gunfire chewed through the air. I peeked over the edge, my breath catching as figures emerged into the aisle between tables, their silhouettes sharp against the faint glow of the chandeliers.

But my attention shifted before the name could fully leave my lips.

She stood in the center of the room, frozen like prey caught in a spotlight. Her auburn hair clung to her face, damp with sweat, her wide, terrified eyes darting to me and back again. She had his eyes.

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Her crimson corset snug against her frame, the black trim now dulled by smears of blood. She must’ve worked here as one of the Cigarette Hostesses. Her short skirt swayed as she shifted slightly, her knees buckling, but the cold steel of the gun against her temple froze her in place. Her fingers twitched by her sides, curling and uncurling like she was desperate to grab something—anything—but couldn’t. A faint tremor rippled through her, and her wide eyes flicked to me for the briefest moment, pleading, before darting back to the man holding her.

The man holding her looked like he owned the place—tall, with dark, slicked-back hair that gleamed under the chandelier’s cold light. His face was sharp, chiseled by privilege, his tailored suit fitting like it had been made by someone whose paycheck could cover a year’s rent. The gun in his hand was steady, an extension of his control, and his eyes scanned the room with the kind of confidence that radiated absolute authority. This wasn’t a grunt. This was a man used to power, the kind who never asked twice.

Then, more figures emerged from the edges of the room. Four, no, five men stepped into view, weapons drawn. They moved slowly, deliberately, fanning out like predators closing in on cornered prey. Each of them was dressed to kill—literally—dark clothes, armored vests, and weapons that glinted with cruel precision. Must be Cat’s private detail.

The room seemed to shrink as they advanced, their footfalls muffled by the thick carpet.

I stole another glance, just long enough for Ashley’s eyes to lock onto mine. In that fleeting moment, her terror spoke louder than words—a silent plea buried deep beneath the panic.

A burst of gunfire sent bullets ricocheting off the slot machine, the metallic whine sharp enough to make me flinch. I dropped back down, heart hammering in my chest, fingers tightening around the grip of my gun. I positioned my sword carefully, keeping it within easy reach.

“Well, well,” the taller one drawled, his voice smooth as silk and just as ready to cut. “Jack Callaghan. The infamous dead man walking. Yeah, we know all about your condition.” I could practically hear his cocky smirk, sharp as the gun pressed to Ashley’s temple.

Beside him, another man—stockier, built like a battering ram with a scar slicing his cheek into a permanent sneer—watched the room with cold amusement. A shotgun rested on his shoulder like it weighed nothing, his posture lazy, like this was just another Tuesday.

“Gotta say, you’ve got some real guts showing up here,” the tall one said. “Now, gun on the ground, or she dies.”

I checked my watch—nearly midnight. Time was running out. With a reluctant sigh, I tossed the gun into the aisle, the metallic clatter echoing louder than it should. Slowly, I raised my hands, palms out, keeping my movements deliberate.

“See? No gun.”

“Now, come out.”

“Promise you won’t shoot?”

There was a pause, just long enough for him to share a look with his comrades. “Yeah, sure. Double pinky promise.”

“A double pinky promise? Well, those are unbreakable,” I said, stepping out with my arms wide. “You’re making this hard to resist.”

I took another step to the side, blocking their view of the aisle, keeping my movements slow, deliberate.

“That’s two for two. See? I’m nothing if not agreeable. I just want to talk to your boss. No reason to hurt the girl.”

The man’s grin widened, his teeth flashing like a predator’s. “Oh, there’s never a reason to hurt someone.” His finger tightened on the trigger, the barrel tilting slightly against Ashley’s head. “Just pleasure.” Something about this guy screamed Jac and Jean—pampered, entitled, weak.

“Tweedle Dee and Tweedle Dum,” I said under my breath, just loud enough to carry.

“What was that?” the taller one snapped, his voice losing its silk and cracking just enough to show he wasn’t used to being mocked.

I smiled—a slow, deliberate thing that I could see crawling under his skin. “Just giving you nicknames. It’s easier than calling you ‘pampered, overgrown brat’ and ‘stumpy little weasel with a discount haircut.’”

The taller one—Tweedle Dee—took a step forward, his jaw tightening. “Cute. Real cute. But you don’t get to call the shots here, tough guy.”

The shorter man—Tweedle Dum, obviously—snorted, his grin sharper and nastier than it had any right to be. “Didn’t you notice,” he sneered, his voice grating and nasal, “we’ve got all the guns? Pretty stupid for a guy about to kiss the carpet.”

“Stupid’s kind of my thing,” I shot back.

“Stall all you want; just gives us more time for reinforcements to show up,” Tweedle Dee sneered, his grip on the gun unflinching. “Now stop moving, or she dies.”