Chapter 4

"Don't move. Don't even breathe loudly," Roderick whispered, his voice vibrating against Elias’s ear.

"It’s a bit hard not to breathe when you’re squashing the oxygen out of me, Roderick," Elias managed to wheeze, though he didn't pull away.

"The shooter is using a suppressor. One shot, then silence. They’re waiting for us to panic and run into the light."

"Well, I’m panicking! I’m just doing it very quietly. Is my back on fire? I felt something hot."

"The acid hit my jacket, not you. Keep your head down. We’re moving toward the service bar on your left. On three. One, two—now."

Roderick didn't wait for a response. He hauled Elias up, keeping his own body hunched over the smaller man, and propelled them through the chaos of the darkened ballroom. Screams echoed off the high ceilings, a symphony of terror that Roderick used as cover. They slid behind a heavy oak bar just as a second muffled thwip hit the wood above them, sending splinters flying.

"They’re persistent," Elias noted, his voice trembling despite his attempt at a joke. "Most people usually give up after the first murder attempt."

"Close your eyes," Roderick commanded, reaching into his pocket.

"Why? Is it a surprise? I love surprises, though I'd prefer one involving jewelry."

"Flashbang."

Roderick tossed the small canister into the center of the room. A second later, a blinding white light and a localized thunderclap tore through the ballroom. Under the cover of the renewed screaming and the sensory overload, Roderick grabbed Elias by the collar of his ruined tuxedo and bolted through the kitchen doors.

The safe house was located in a nondescript industrial district, hidden behind the facade of a defunct textile warehouse. Inside, it was a sterile box of brushed steel, reinforced concrete, and flickering monitors.

"It’s hideous," Elias said, his voice echoing in the small, high-tech space. "It looks like a dentist’s office for robots. Where is the furniture, Roderick? Where is the soul?"

"The soul was left at the gala, along with the person trying to kill you," Roderick snapped, his movements frantic as he began running a handheld scanner along the seams of the walls. "Sit on the cot. Don't touch the walls. I’m sweeping for bugs."

"I’m touched you care about my hygiene, but I think the walls are the least of our problems."

"Not that kind of bug, Elias. Electronic surveillance. If they hit us that precisely at the gala, they had inside intel."

"Inside? You mean like... my people? Mireille? Nolan?" Elias sat on the edge of the stiff, military-grade cot, looking small in his oversized, singed jacket. "Nolan is a prick, but he doesn't have the spine for acid attacks. He prefers character assassination."

"Everyone is a suspect until I say they aren't," Roderick muttered, the scanner chirping as he passed it over a ventilation grate. "And stop fidgeting. You’re making me nervous."

"I’m fidgeting because this fabric is itching my soul! This cot is made of—is this canvas? Do people actually sleep on this?"

"I’ve slept on mud in the rain, Elias. You’ll survive a night on a cot."

"Yes, but you’re a professional martyr. I’m a delicate ecosystem of luxury and poor decisions. I need a pillow. A real one. Not this... brick disguised as a headrest."

Roderick finished the sweep and tossed the scanner onto a metal table. He turned to face Elias, his face smudged with soot and his back still smelling of acrid chemicals. "There are no pillows. There is no silk. There is only a reinforced steel door and a ventilation system that filters out neurotoxins. Welcome to reality."

Elias looked at him for a long moment, his playful mask slipping just enough to show the hollow exhaustion underneath. "Your reality is very bleak, Roderick."

"It keeps people alive."

"Is that all you do? Exist in the spaces between disasters?"

"It’s what I’m paid for."

Roderick walked over to a locker and pulled out two vacuum-sealed silver foil packets. He tossed one to Elias.

"What is this?" Elias asked, holding it as if it were a strange artifact. "Is it a space-age facial mask?"

"It’s dinner. High-protein, nutrient-dense survival paste. Tastes like chalk and disappointment."

Elias made a face, peeling back the foil and sniffing the contents. "Oh, heavens. It smells like a wet dog's birthday party. I can't eat this. My stomach would file a lawsuit."

"Eat it. You haven't had anything since those gold eggs this morning."

"I refuse. I have a better idea." Elias reached into the inner lining of his tuxedo, fumbling with a hidden pocket near the hem. "Aha! I knew I kept these for an emergency."

He pulled out three crumpled wrappers of bright red and gold.

"Is that... candy?" Roderick asked, incredulous.

"Not just candy. Imported Swiss truffles and a very rare, very illegal-in-four-states strawberry chew," Elias said, beaming as he smoothed out the wrappers on his knees. "I smuggled them from the VIP lounge before the acid started flying. I have a habit of hoarding sweets when I’m bored."

"You were at a high-security event, being hunted by assassins, and you were shoplifting truffles?"

"I prefer the term 'liberating.' Here." Elias tossed a gold-wrapped sphere toward Roderick. "Try the hazelnut one. It makes the prospect of being murdered much more bearable."

Roderick caught it out of habit. He looked at the chocolate, then at Elias, who was already happily unwrapping a strawberry chew. The absurdity of the situation—the high-tech fortress, the ruined tuxedos, the smell of acid, and the billionaire socialite eating candy on a cot—finally cracked Roderick’s composure. He sat down on the floor opposite the cot, leaning his head back against the cold metal.

"You’re insane," Roderick said, though the edge was gone from his voice.

"I’m consistent," Elias corrected, his mouth half-full. "So, tell me. Why the scowl? Is it the suit? I can get you a new one. I’ll even let you pick the color, as long as it isn't 'depressing charcoal.'"

"The suit is the least of it. I’m thinking about the waiter. He was a pro. The way he moved, the way he waited for the exact moment of high visibility to strike. He wasn't just a hitman. He was a performer."

"Like me?" Elias asked softly.

Roderick looked up. Elias wasn't smiling anymore. He was staring at the silver foil of the survival paste, his fingers twisting the edges.

"You’re not a hitman, Elias."

"No, but I’m a performer. Every day. The 'Incorrigible Elias Storme.' The 'Disaster of the Decade.' It’s a very demanding role. People expect me to trip over statues and flirt with bodyguards. If I stopped... if I were just a man sitting in a room... I don't think anyone would know what to do with me. Including myself."

"Is that why you do it? The stunts? The cat cafes?"

"It’s better than the silence," Elias admitted, his voice dropping to a whisper. "When the cameras are off and the gala is over, the Storme mansion is just a very expensive tomb. My father is a statue made of stocks and bonds. My mother is a ghost in a wellness retreat. The noise... the trouble... it’s the only thing that makes me feel like I’m actually occupying space."

Roderick looked at the chocolate in his hand. He unwrapped it and popped it into his mouth. It was rich, sweet, and entirely out of place in this cold room. "You don't have to occupy space by blowing it up, you know."

"It’s the most efficient way. Besides, if I weren't a disaster, you wouldn't be here, would you? You’d be guarding some boring diplomat who talks about trade tariffs until your ears bleed."

"Probably," Roderick said. "But at least I wouldn't have to worry about Greek gods falling on my legs."

Elias chuckled, a genuine sound that didn't have the practiced lilt of his public persona. "You have to admit, it was a very stylish way to almost die."

"I’ll pass on the style next time."

They sat in silence for a few minutes, the only sound the hum of the safe house’s server racks. For the first time since the contract began, the tension between them wasn't a clash of wills—it was a shared weight.

"Roderick?"

"Yeah?"

"Thanks. For the... you know. Jumping in front of the acid. That was very 'knight in shining Kevlar' of you."

"Don't get used to it. It’s a bitch to get out of the fabric."

"I’ll buy you a hundred suits," Elias promised, leaning back against the wall, his eyes drooping with exhaustion. "A thousand. I’ll buy you a whole factory in Italy."

"Just stay alive, Elias. That’s the only payment I care about."

"I’ll try. But I make no promises about the 11:00 AM tomorrow. I heard there’s an alpaca yoga class—"

"Go to sleep, Elias."

"Fine, fine. Goodnight, my grumpy protector."

Roderick watched as Elias eventually curled up on the narrow cot, his breath evening out into the shallow rhythm of sleep. The socialite looked younger like this, the sharp lines of his charisma softened by the dim blue light of the monitors.

Roderick’s phone vibrated in his pocket. He pulled it out, seeing an encrypted caller ID. He stepped into the small kitchenette area to avoid waking Elias.

"Talk to me, Kendrick," Roderick said, his voice a low rasp.

"It’s not Kendrick," a voice replied—sharper, more technical. "It’s Garrett Lockridge. Kendrick is currently dealing with the police at the Beaumont Estate."

"Garrett. Did you get the trace on the burner phone we recovered from the gallery thief?"

"Better," Garrett said, the sound of rapid typing audible over the line. "I tracked the encrypted signal that triggered the blackout at the gala tonight. It wasn't a remote hack. It was a physical override from a localized terminal."

Roderick’s grip on the phone tightened. "Where was the terminal?"

"That’s the problem, Roderick. The signal didn't come from the Beaumont Estate. It was relayed through a private server."

"Whose server?"

"I just finished bypassing the final firewall," Garrett said, his voice dropping an octave. "The command to kill the lights and the authorization for the security bypass... they were issued from a terminal inside the Storme Estate. The main house."

Roderick looked through the glass partition at the sleeping man on the cot. "Are you sure?"

"One hundred percent. The call is coming from inside the house, Roderick. Someone in Elias’s inner circle didn't just leak the plans—they opened the front door."

Roderick ended the call, his gaze hardening as he looked at the steel door of the safe house. They were locked in, but for the first time, he realized that the walls might not be keeping the danger out. They might be trapping him in with the target of a much larger betrayal.

"Elias," Roderick whispered to the empty room. "Who the hell are you actually running from?"