Chapter 4: The Service Gate

The gold chain on my wrist felt like lead when I dragged myself out of the pool. Water poured off me in cold sheets, slapping the deck. Behind the one-way glass, shadows didn’t budge—just watched, tablets glowing blue, phones up. One tapped a bid. The number flashed along the pool edge: $275,000 – LIVE. My stomach lurched. I was the item.

Damian’s voice cut through the steam. “Guest wing. Shower. Change. Underwater footage at lunch.” He didn’t look at me—just turned, board shorts plastered to his thighs, silver in his hair dripping, and walked inside like he owned the sea. Seraphina floated on her back in the red-lit water, gold chain flashing around her waist, chest rising slow. “Don’t be late, pet,” she sang, sweet and sharp. “The board loves punctuality. And obedience.”

I grabbed a towel—thick, monogrammed with a red C—and wrapped it tight. It scraped the rope marks on my ribs, pink lines still throbbing. My legs shook as I followed the cedar hallway back to the guest wing. Heated stone underfoot felt like a moving walkway pulling me in. Red dots blinked overhead—cameras everywhere.

The room screamed luxury trap: white oak floors shining, cream linen curtains puffing from vents, bed big enough to lose yourself in. My duffel sat open on the rack—empty. Every scrap of my clothes gone. In their place: one sheer black bodysuit on the bed, crotchless, backless, spotlighted like an altar. Cost more than my rent, hid nothing. Note in Damian’s handwriting on cream card: Wear this to lunch. Nothing else. –D

Ignored it. Needed real clothes, keys, out. Closet: biometric, blue glow waiting for a thumb I didn’t have. Bathroom safe: fingerprint plus retinal scan—red laser swept my eye, beeped no. Windows: triple-paned, sealed, ocean muffled to a hum. Flipped the laptop open. PRIVATE folder updated: Subject L.M. – Trial 2 – LIVE AUCTION. Countdown: 01:27:14 and dropping.

Typed to R on the burner app:

No clothes. No keys. Cameras everywhere. Took everything.

Reply instant: Laundry chute. Bottom floor. Staff uniform. Keys in Rover. Go.

Chute hid behind a fake towel hamper in the bathroom. Prized the panel—slid back silent. Narrow metal tube plunged three stories, slick with soap, bleach smell faint. Stripped the towel, folded it thick for padding, jammed it at the lip. Heart pounding loud enough for the red dot to hear.

Slid feet-first.

Cold metal burned my back, drop steeper than it looked. Shot down in darkness and detergent stink, towel barely softening the crash into a canvas bin of wet linens—sheets, towels, heavy with salt and lavender. Hit hard—teeth clacked, spine jolted. Bit back a yelp, rolled out onto concrete.

Basement laundry was huge: washers growling, dryers thumping, steam thick, bleach and softener and metal in the air. No people—robots folded clothes, conveyor belts zipped stacks into plastic. Uniform rack nearby: black pants, white shirt, tag “M. Torres.” Close enough. Pants loose, shirt starched stiff, shoes half-size big but better than nothing. Key ring on hook: SERVICE VEHICLES—ROVER #2. Grabbed it, metal cold.

Service door out back to gravel path behind the kitchen, pampas grass hiding it from the house. Ocean louder, tide climbing, waves clawing the cliff. Salt and pine sharp, sky turning bruise-purple. Checked burner: 17:29. Thirteen minutes to gate.

Ran.

Gravel stabbed through soles. Wind slapped salt in my eyes. Floodlights snapped on behind—motion sensors, beams sweeping dunes like prison lights. Drone buzzed overhead, red eye blinking, rotors whining over the waves. Dove into pines along the track—branches whipped my face, blood beading on cheeks, needles snagging hair.

Service gate: rusty iron arch in dunes, heavy chain, padlock, no tech. Hands shook, keys rattling. First wrong. Second wrong. Third—click, chain dropped like a dead thing. Shoved gate, hinges screamed, slipped through.

Dirt track beyond, deep ruts, into thick pines. Black Rover idled inside tree line, lights off, engine low, exhaust curling. Sprinted, lungs on fire, drone spotlight slicing trees behind.

R inside—mid-thirties, buzzed hair, scar over eyebrow, eyes like glass shards. Black hoodie, jeans, calm that said he’d seen worse. “In. Floor it,” he snapped, shifting gear before my door shut.

Slammed it. Rover lurched, tires spitting gravel, fishtailing then biting dirt. Drone tracked, light strobing canopy. R floored it—engine roared, branches smashed windshield, pine needles exploding. One hand on wheel, tossed me a cheap burner.

“Bank. Freeze everything. They’ll empty you tonight—cards, Venmo, crypto.”

Dialed shaky, rattled numbers to the operator. “Frozen. Immediate.” Hung up, phone slick with sweat.

Main gate ahead—steel, ten feet, camera, red light. R didn’t brake. “Hold on.” Rover screamed forward, crashed through—metal shrieked, sparks flew, spine rattled. Gate buckled, one side hanging. Bumper dented, we rolled. Hit asphalt, tires howling. Drone peeled off at property line.

Looked back. Estate glowed on cliff, floodlights frantic, searchlights cutting dusk. Real phone buzzed in glove box. Opened it.

Damian: You left the bodysuit. Shame. Board at $325,000 and rising. Back before tide. Or we come. –D

Live feed attached: guest wing, red dot, bodysuit on bed—red ribbon tied round it now, same one from the ropes, fluttering in AC like surrender.

R jaw tight. “Trace the Rover in an hour—thermal, plates, cams. Dump in Montauk. Then you ghost—new name, new city, new life.”

Stared at screen, ribbon dancing. Auction clock: 00:47:12 and falling.

Ocean roared beside us, tide rising fast. Pines blurred black. Gold chain gone, but its weight lingered—cold, waiting.