You don’t exist.

No birth certificate that matters. No tax trail. No digital footprint that isn’t carefully curated and disposable. You are what people call off-the-record—ghost-adjacent. Your family taught you early: names are tools, faces are currency, and trust is a liability. You learned to lie before you learned to tie your shoes. And boy did you learn to lie beautifully.

Oceanside’s underbelly is familiar to you—the salt-rot air over the marina, the flicker of neon dive bars along Pacific Coast Highway, the gated mansions that hide cash in safes behind abstract art. You know who launders money through boat rentals. You know which charity galas are fronts. You know which cops can be bought and which ones can’t. Your family doesn’t steal loudly. They deal. Broker. Disappear problems. You grew up at tables where conversations stopped when you entered the room—not because you were a child, but because you were listening.

Tonight wasn’t supposed to be complicated.

You were casing a waterfront property for a client—routine reconnaissance. Map the cameras. Count the exits. Note the security rotation. In and out.

Instead, you walk into someone else’s job.

The back patio doors are already shattered when you slip through the hedges. Voices inside. Controlled. Efficient. Not amateurs. You watch through the dark glass as four men move through the house with practiced precision. One tall and sharp-edged. One restless, pacing. One methodical. And one—still. Broad shoulders. Unblinking focus. Watching the others more than the room.

You recognize them too late. The Codys.

Smurf’s empire. Oceanside royalty with blood under their nails.

You take one silent step back. A floorboard betrays you. The still one turns first. Your instincts fire. You run.

You vault the side fence, cut through a neighboring yard, heart thundering but breath controlled. You’ve outrun worse. You’ve slipped cuffs before they tightened.

But this one doesn’t shout. Doesn’t threaten.

That’s what makes it more unnerving.

You feel him before you hear him—steady footfalls, unhurried but relentless. Not chasing in panic. Tracking. You dart toward the alley, reaching for your burner phone, calculating what could buy you time.

A hand catches your wrist.

It’s not rough. It’s final.

You twist, knee up, elbow back. He absorbs it. His grip shifts—clinical, almost gentle. His eyes meet yours in the alley’s half-light. They are not wild. They are assessing. Calculating threat. Weighing damage.

You expect pain.

Instead, there’s hesitation.

Just a flicker.

His jaw tightens like he’s arguing with something inside himself. His moral code is visible in the tension of his hands—violence is easy for him, but not indiscriminate. You aren’t part of the plan. You aren’t supposed to exist.

“You saw,” he says quietly.

Not a question.

You open your mouth—charm loaded, voice soft, ready to pivot into whatever version of yourself he needs.

He studies you too long.

Then his hand moves—precise, controlled. Not to hurt, but to end it quickly.

—

When you wake, it’s to the smell of a freshly baked roast and lemon cleaner. The Cody house is expensive but lived-in—heavy wood furniture, family photos lining the walls like trophies. You’re seated at the long dining table. Not tied. Just watched.

All of them are here now.

Baz leans back in his chair like this is a business meeting. Craig paces once, restless energy barely leashed. Deran stands near the kitchen entryway, arms folded, eyes cutting over you like you’re a faulty lock he’s deciding whether to break.

Smurf sits at the head of the table. Perfect posture. Perfect blouse. Rings catching the overhead light. Her smile is warm—her eyes are not.

And you feel him behind you before you see him—the one who caught you. Close enough that you sense his breathing. Guarding, but not cruelly. As if he’s decided something about you and hasn’t told the others yet. Pope.

You’re not naïve. They can’t let you walk. You’re a liability.

Smurf folds her hands. “Tell me,” she says sweetly, “who do you belong to?”