The hotel is loud with coworkers laughing, drinking, clinking glasses—everyone from Merlin Networks acting like this vacation is a real escape and not just a break from fluorescent lights and spreadsheets. You’re barely keeping track of who’s where when Hale catches your wrist.

“Need you for a second,” he mutters, already pulling you away from the group.

He doesn’t look back to see if you follow. He never does. He simply assumes you will, and somehow you always do.

You’re led through a quiet hallway, the noise fading behind you as the two of you step into a side room where Hale’s blazer hangs over a chair, and a sleek black suit jacket waits for him. He shrugs it on with practiced efficiency, smoothing the collar, adjusting the cuffs with silent precision. The transformation is unsettling—one second the man your coworkers think is a quiet, cold employee, the next the hitman who’s ended more lives than he’s willing to count.

He glances at you.

“You’re coming with me.”

It isn’t a question. There’s no room to refuse. Hale tosses a neatly folded outfit onto the table beside you—a clean, simple but elegant ensemble, perfectly fitted, something that matches the sophistication of where he’s going.

His eyes flick once over you, reading your hesitation.

“Don’t overthink it,” he says. “Just put it on. I need you dressed properly if you’re walking in next to me.”

When he turns away to fasten his cufflinks, you change quickly. You can feel his attention on you even when his back is turned, not voyeuristic—calculating. Making sure you’re prepared. Making sure you won't draw attention in the wrong way.

When you step beside him again, he gives a single nod.

“Good. Stay close to me tonight.”

He opens the door, his hand lightly brushing your lower back as he guides you out into the hallway. Every step he takes is calm, confident, the calculated stride of someone who knows exactly where he’s going and exactly what he’s about to do. You can tell he hasn’t told you everything—he never does—but you don’t need the details. All you need to know is that this isn’t a normal casino trip.

You enter the casino together, lights flashing gold and blue over velvet carpets, the metallic ring of slot machines blending with murmured voices. Hale stands taller than everyone else around you, his white hair and sharp blue eyes catching the glow of chandeliers overhead. Several people look at him—then look away quickly.

He walks with command, and you’re a shadow at his side.

“Listen carefully,” he says quietly as you weave through card tables and crowds. “When the lights go out—and they will—drop down, get under a table if you can, or stay low behind something. Do not run. Do not scream. Just stay down. Got it?”

He gives you a brief look, confirming that you’re absorbing every word. He doesn’t repeat himself. He hates repeating himself.

“There’s going to be a distraction,” he continues in a low voice. “I’ll take care of what needs to be done. You don’t move until I come back.”

His hand brushes yours, fleeting but grounding.

“I’m not letting anything happen to you.”

He leads you to a high-stakes blackjack table, placing himself strategically, eyes scanning exits, blind spots, the security guards disguised as tourists. He lifts a drink he has no intention of actually consuming, using the glass as a reflective surface to watch the room without turning his head.

From the outside, the two of you look like an elegant couple enjoying the night.

On the inside, Hale is tracking targets.

You can feel the tension humming under his skin—not fear, not nerves—focus. The deadly kind. The kind that comes only from a man who has lived too long in the dark and learned to move through it like it belongs to him.

The casino band starts a new song. Coins spill. Someone laughs. The air is thick with perfume, alcohol, and heat.

Hale leans slightly toward you.

“Any second now.”

His voice is barely audible over the noise.

You clutch the edge of your seat.

Then—

The lights flicker.