Liam's Pov
I rolled into the basement, the bike's engine cutting off with a low growl that quickly died in the concrete silence. Helmet under my arm, I walked to the elevator, hit the button, and leaned back against the wall as the faint hum carried me up.
The apartment door clicked open easily, and I stepped inside. The living room was dark — no Emma on the couch. I locked the door behind me, the sound echoing louder than it should've in the quiet space.
Her door was closed when I passed by.
She must've gone to bed already. Probably for the best — it was late.
In my room, I pulled off the jacket, dropped it over the chair, and sat down at my desk. That was when Eve chimed in.
[You've got a text]
My HUD lit up in front of me, lines of text crisp against the darkness:
[Text]
Lab Address: XXX XX XXX
Contact Name: Alex
Time: Tuesday, 10PM.
I smirked. 'John doesn't waste time.'
"Save his number," I told Eve.
[Done. Listed under the name 'John Wick']
I leaned back in the chair, the satisfaction settling in when Eve's voice nudged my thoughts.
[The Hale report is ready. I've compiled everything and cross-checked with older records]
My HUD flickered, and a neat series of files, clips, and headlines appeared in a floating overlay. She began her briefing in her clipped, almost smug tone.
[First summary: Hale built his name training pro athletes. Biggest achievement—one of his runners won gold in the Olympics. It got him credibility and headlines]
I nodded slightly. So he wasn't just some flashy celebrity coach from the start. Real results once.
[Second summary: A few other minor successes after that, but nothing on the same scale. His career flattened]
"Not surprising," I muttered. "One big win doesn't make a legacy."
[Third summary: Personal life. Divorce finalized four years ago. Wife's name: Clara Jensen. No children]
I leaned back. "No kids? Thought he might have a family angle."
[Negative. Clara's post-divorce interviews hinted at heavy drinking and late nights with no explanation. She didn't accuse him of cheating, but her wording was… suggestive]
"Classic damage control," I said. "Say enough to smear, but not enough for defamation."
[Fourth summary: After the divorce, Hale pivoted. Stopped chasing pros, started selling himself to celebrities. Built an image as the 'influencer's and Celebritie's trainer.' Public perception is mostly good. But…]
She swiped the HUD, and several smaller scandals scrolled by: blurry paparazzi photos, tabloid covers, whispers in blogs.
[…rumors of women, gambling, late-night parties. Nothing concrete. No charges but smoke usually means fire.]
I drummed my fingers on the desk, scanning the collage of headlines and clips. Hale smiling on red carpets. Hale spotted at clubs. Hale with models.
"So," I said finally, "on paper: decorated trainer turned influencer darling. Privately: same vices as half of Hollywood."
[Exactly. Image clean enough to play to the public. But cracks if you look close.]
"Good," I said. "Means there's a way in."
[You'll need more than rumors for court, you know.]
"Yeah," I said, eyes narrowing at Hale's grinning photo.
The photos kept scrolling across my HUD — Hale with his arm slung around some half-famous actor, Hale with a model perched on his lap, Hale stumbling out of a dark-lit lounge with sunglasses on at midnight.
Most of it was noise, but then something caught my eye.
I tapped my desk, freezing the HUD on one image. "Hold up."
It was from two months ago. Hale was leaning against a bar, laughing, drink in hand. But I wasn't looking at him. I was looking past him.
The neon glow behind his shoulder. The pattern of the brick wall. The faint crest of some logo etched into glass.
"Eve. Gather the recent photos. Sort them by background."
[…What are you seeing?] she asked
"Just do it."
The collage rearranged itself, shrinking Hale's grinning face until the backgrounds became the focus.
And there it was. Four. No, five. Different photos, different dates — all within the last four months. And every single one carried that same backdrop. Subtle, but unmistakable once you knew where to look.
"That wall," I said, pointing. "Same brick pattern. Same neon tint. Different angles, different nights. But the same place."
[Interesting. So, despite his reputation as a party-hopper, he might actually be a regular at just one location]
"Exactly. People lie. Patterns don't."
I leaned forward. "Run a scan. Take these pictures, map out the background. Cross-reference against every club's official site, interior design photos, press releases — hell, even Yelp reviews. New York only."
[Got it. The background matches an interior design set from a mid-tier lounge. Name: The Velvet Rose]
I raised an eyebrow. "Sounds like a B-movie vampire bar."
[It's real. Registered owner: Francesco Dorian — former film promoter. Club hours are 10 p.m. to 5 a.m., Location: XXX, Brooklyn. Out of the way with quiet streets after dark. Good spot for someone who wants privacy] Eve finished
Drummed my fingers on the desk. "So Hale keeps showing up at a club tucked in the corner of Brooklyn, owned by a no-name promoter. Yet all the media shots make it look like he's just drifting from party to party in Manhattan."
[Which means the curated image is a smokescreen. But the real him?]
"He's nesting," I said flatly. "People always go back to their nest."
The image of Hale's grin lingered in my HUD and for the first time tonight, I could see a string.
"Alright, Eve," Eyes narrowing at the name still glowing in my HUD. "Francesco Dorian. I need a face to go with it. Cross-reference the name with socials, tags, anything public related to the Club name. Give me pictures."
[On it]
Lines of data cascaded across my vision, accounts linking, tags being pulled, photo metadata dissected and filtered. Within seconds, Eve's voice returned.
[Found him. Multiple matches. Majority from inside The Velvet Rose.]
A row of images flickered to life in my HUD.
Francesco Dorian—mid-thirties, olive skin, slick black hair combed back with precision, a neatly trimmed beard that gave him a perpetual smirk. He wore sharp suits, usually black or deep navy, sometimes with a gold chain peeking out from his collar.
Always photographed with a drink in hand. Always inside the club. Sometimes with celebrities, sometimes with models draped across his arm, sometimes alone but still posing like the center of gravity in the room.
As the images scrolled past in my HUD, something snagged my attention.
Not Francesco or the glittering guests orbiting him like moths.
Her. A girl in the background.
First picture—tray in hand, tight black dress with the club's logo stitched low on the hem. Second picture—different outfit, same spot behind Francesco's table, Third, Fourth and by the eighth shot I'd counted, my suspicion had hardened into something sharper.
She wasn't a random face in the crowd.
"Eve," I said, leaning forward, eyes narrowing. "Lock on her. Background waitress, dark hair, sharp jawline. Find her across the net."
[Scanning… cross-referencing with open socials media… facial recognition confirms a match]
A pause. Then a profile blinked alive in the corner of my HUD—a social media account with the same girl's face smiling in the circle. Username: @Seraphina32.
[Private account. Zero tagged photos from other users. No cross-links. She's paranoid!] eve commented
I studied the frozen display picture. Seraphina—dark hair spilling over one shoulder, sultry half-smile that felt deliberate
A waitress in eight out of seventeen pictures of Francesco meant she wasn't just basic staff. She was consistent and close enough to Francesco's circle.
"She's worth flagging"
[Got it. Seraphina's officially on the board] Eve
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