The call ended.
Liam stood in the silence that followed, his heart thudding slow and hard. The bottle in his hand finally gave, glass cracking as pressure split its edge. He dropped it in the sink, letting it bleed alone.
The number he called wasn't a friend's. It was more like a door, one he swore never to open again. But desperation had its own key.
He sat down slowly, breathing through the sharp ache in his ribs. The pain kept him grounded. Real.
Outside the motel window, the city bled neon. Sirens cried in the distance like wolves. He could almost smell the rot beneath the shine, grease, concrete, the perfume of expensive betrayal.
His phone buzzed.
[Pawn to King Protocol: Initiated.]
[First Directive: Reclaim what was stolen.]
There it was. Black letters on white. No sound, no effect. But it hit harder than any explosion.
Liam's lips curled into a smirk.
"About damn time."
The room shifted or maybe it was just him. The walls, the stale air, the silence, they didn't matter anymore. The system had finally stopped watching and started speaking.
He stepped into the bathroom and splashed water on his face. The mirror gave him nothing but hollow eyes. Grease-smudged cheeks and a scar on his jaw he didn't remember getting. He looked like a man trying to crawl out of his own skin.
He grabbed a jacket from the bed. Stale, but thick. His father's? He couldn't remember. Didn't care.
Another buzz.
[Target: Miles Donovan.]
[Status: Executive Director, Grayson Holdings.]
[Asset: Father's ledger, pre-transfer.]
[Task: Retrieve it. By any means.]
He paused.
Miles.
Of course.
It had always been him. Not just Kieran's show. Miles was the one who moved the pieces when no one was looking. Who smiled over dinners while stabbing through the linen with silver forks.
Liam's hand twitched toward his pocket. Phone. Lighter. Key.
The night felt sharp when he stepped outside, cold air biting down like the city was trying to warn him off. But Liam walked anyway, through alleyways that smelled like piss and regret. Past buildings where lights blinked in tired rhythms.
He knew where Miles would be. The man loved cameras. Loved charity galas and being seen. It was all a game of masks for him.
-The Glass Arc-
Downtown.
A tower of steel and pretense, wrapped in shimmering glass that reflected a city it no longer resembled.
Forty minutes later, Liam stood across the street, half-shrouded in shadow. His hoodie masked most of his face. The pain in his foot flared with every step, but he welcomed it. It reminded him he was still real and still moving.
The entrance was lined with guards in black suits. Familiar faces, once under his father's payroll. Now turned. No surprise. Loyalty bent with the wind.
He didn't try the front.
Instead, he moved along the alley. He circled twice before he found a side entrance, one used by catering. A smoker on break stood outside, phone in hand. Liam walked past once. Then again.
The third time, he moved.
Fast and quiet. One punch to the throat, firm and quick. The man dropped, wheezing. Liam caught the lanyard before it hit the ground. No one saw. He slid through the door like he'd never left.
Inside, the music hit first. Jazzy. Pretentious. The sound of wealth pretending to care.
Liam moved like he belonged. Not fast, not slow. Just enough confidence to blur him out of focus.
The system chimed in his mind again.
[Asset Location: Private Office, Floor 43.]
[Security: Moderate.]
[Cameras: Yes.]
[Armed: Unknown.]
He took a stairwell. Quiet and empty. By the time he hit the 40s, his breath came shallow. The ribs screamed but he ignored them.
Floor 43 was quiet. Carpeted and gilded with silence and money.
Liam moved past glass doors etched with gold. One of them bore Miles' name.
He stepped inside.
No alarms. Not yet.
The office smelled of cologne and greed. Shelves lined with fake awards. Desk clear, too clear. A man who didn't do the work, just signed the page.
The system pulsed.
[Asset nearby.]
Liam scanned. Bookshelf. Safe behind a painting? No. Too obvious.
He found it in the credenza. Hidden panel. Smart lock.
Too smart.
The system buzzed.
[Override granted. Accessing...]
The panel clicked open.
Inside, a black book. Leather. Thick. Real.
His father's ledger.
Untouched.
He reached for it but paused.
The weight of it chilled his fingers. Not from cold, but from memory. Inked pages full of names, numbers, and promises. Deals his father never got to finish.
A sound behind him.
The door.
Liam turned.
Miles stood there. Alone with no guards. No tie. Just him and the weight of history in his eyes.
"Well," Miles said, voice low. "Didn't expect you to have the balls to come back."
Liam's hand closed around the book.
"I came for what's mine."