Semua Bab Gold & Sand: Bab 311 - Bab 320

The keyboard clicks were the only sound in the condo.Clark sat at the dining table, sleeves rolled, glasses slipping low on his nose. Legal files fanned out in front of him like a courtroom ritual—typed statements, annotated briefs, a salad he hadn’t touched, and a glass of water left sweating on a coaster.The front door opened.Adam stepped in with his usual lack of subtlety—hoodie hanging open, boots scuffed, a paper bag in one hand, and a slim envelope in the other. He looked like someone who had stared down a pharmacy line and lost his last nerve doing it.He kicked the door shut behind him. Walked in, dropped the paper bag on the table, and let the envelope land beside it with a flat slap.“Didn’t have Lexopram,” Adam said. “And the Diazprint was ninety quid for ten pills.”Clark finally glanced up. “Jesus.”“So I got the Alprazolam. The Sandoz generic. Blue stripes, not pink. You said those kick in quicker.”Clark blinked, then sat back a little. “You remembered that?”Adam ga

The car rolled lazy through East End traffic, radio off, tension on. Clark was flipping through case notes, ankle crossed over his knee, coat draped neatly on his lap. Adam drove like he always did—left hand on the wheel, right knee up, hoodie halfway off one shoulder, chewing a toothpick like it owed him rent. The burner lit up. Adam didn’t check who it was. He just answered. “Yeah.” Wilson’s voice slammed through, loud and no-nonsense. “I need you on Barrow. Now. Kid botched a run, left prints, someone’s squealing. Clean it up.” Adam didn’t flinch. “Copy.” But Wilson wasn’t done. “You with that fancy-ass gay lawyer again?” Adam’s jaw ticked. “What’s it matter?” Clark looked up. Slowly. Wilson snorted. “You fuckin’ him or just carryin’ his purse today?” Adam’s voice dropped. “Watch it.” “Relax, Romeo. Just didn’t peg you for the boyfriend type. Thought you were the hit-first, grunt-later type.” Clark blinked. Closed the folder. Wilson kept going. “You s

Michaelis didn’t look up when the knock came.“Enter,” he said, flatly.Officer Langston stepped in, holding a clipboard. His posture was textbook—back straight, uniform spotless, eyes fixed somewhere above the warden’s head.Michaelis kept reading the document in front of him.“Anything new?”Langston cleared his throat. “Yes, sir. Third attempt on Inmate Hills. Shower block. Same pattern—two attackers.”Michaelis’s pen paused. “Names?”“Confirmed. Daryl Finch and Kaleb Morse. Cellblock D, both with priors for aggravated assault. Guards subdued them mid-act. One required sedation. The other was restrained with minimal force.”Michaelis turned a page. “Method?”Langston’s voice stayed steady. “Plastic bag. Over the head. One held him. One suffocated. Hills sustained bruising to the throat, minor lacerations on the arms. No loss of consciousness. He recovered unassisted.”Michaelis nodded once.“Transfer them to solitary. Seventy-two hours,

Michaelis office was, as always, immaculate.The blinds were half-drawn. The lighting low. The kind of silence that only belonged to a man who ruled by control, not volume.A knock.Then the door opened without waiting for an answer.In stepped Silas Renn, Head of Internal Coordination and Administrative Oversight. Clean suit. Prison-issued sidearm. Every button done. Efficient, loyal—and behind closed doors, far more intimate with Michaelis than any chain of command would suggest.He shut the door behind him.“You didn’t answer my message,” Silas said softly, stepping closer.Michaelis didn’t rise from his desk.“Didn’t need to,” he muttered.Silas’s gaze sharpened. “Something’s wrong.”Michaelis finally looked up. His jaw was tight. His eyes cold. “I lost.”Silas walked behind the desk, leaned down, and without ceremony—kissed him. Short. Familiar. No affection, just confirmation. You’re mine. Still.Then he pulled back and said, “Explain.”Michaelis opened a drawer and tossed a fil

Arthur parked the bike just outside the prison perimeter, the engine cutting out with a quiet sputter. He pulled off his helmet, checked the time—His phone buzzed.Charles.He answered, already half-smiling. “Hey.”“Look who decided to answer the call!” Charles’s voice came through bright, sarcastic. “What is this, a solar eclipse?”Arthur laughed. “I was gonna call you later.”“You always say that.”“I mean it this time.”“Mm-hmm,” Charles drawled. “So? How’s your boyfriend?”Arthur hesitated. “Cassidy’s… fine.”Charles paused. “That’s all I get?”Arthur shifted. “We talked. That’s all. Look—I really do have to go. Can I call you tonight?”“You better,” Charles said. “I want details. Or at least gossip.”Arthur smiled. “Deal.”They hung up.He tucked the phone away, exhaled once, and stepped inside.Arthur walked through the visitor processing corridor with his ID badge clutched tighter than it needed to be.He wasn’t nervous. Not really.But the way the walls echoed and the way tim