The next morning, Grayson woke to the low hum of traffic, it was distant, but constant enough to press against his skull. His head throbbed, the kind of dull, mean ache you get from too much cheap whiskey and a night you'd rather not unpack. The pillow beneath him felt heavier than it should, like it had turned to concrete sometime after dawn.
For a few seconds, he kept his eyes closed, pulling the thin blanket tighter around himself, letting the muted warmth shield him from the day. It was easy to imagine staying there, cocooned in half-sleep, letting the rest of Briarwick grind on without him. But pretending never lasted long.
He opened his eyes to the pale morning light cutting through a crooked gap in the blinds. Dust floated in slow spirals in the beam, catching the air's faint chill. He lay still, watching it, until the weight in his chest reminded him he had a phone on the floor beside the bed. It was face-down, exactly where he'd let it slip from his fingers last night. He reached for it, thumb already moving out of habit.
One new text. RENT. From the landlord.
He ignored it for now, thumb hovering over the news app instead. Headlines scrolled up the screen — petty theft, weather reports, another scandal from a councilman who couldn't keep his affairs discreet. No mention of a body found on Briarwick's East Quarter streets. No late-night altercation turned deadly. Not anything. Weird. He scrolled slower, as if the story might materialize between the lines if he read carefully enough. But it didn't.
A dream, then? No. His ribs ached where that guy's fist had landed, a dull, hot bruise spreading under the skin. The sound of that crack still sat heavy in the back of his mind, replaying in the rhythm of his headache.
Grayson dropped the phone on the mattress and swung his legs over the side of the bed. His bare feet hit the floorboards and he pushed himself to his feet, stretching until his spine popped.
The apartment's kitchen was small, tucked just past a narrow strip of living room. The tiles were chipped, the fridge rattled when it woke itself, and the paint was peeling in patches along the baseboards. But it was cheap, and cheap was all they could afford.
Holly was already there, leaning against the counter with her blonde hair tied in a messy knot. She was in one of his old t-shirts — washed soft from years of wear and shorts that barely reached mid-thigh. She sipped coffee from a chipped mug, flicking through a pile of unopened mail with one hand.
"You're up early," she said without looking up.
"Couldn't sleep." He yanked the fridge open, pulling out the milk and sniffing it before pouring some into the mug she'd left out for him.
She set the mail aside, tapping her nail against the top envelope. "You know rent's late, right?"
"Yeah," he muttered, pouring himself coffee.
"We're already two weeks behind, Gray."
He took a sip, the bitter heat sliding over his tongue. "Gonna be tricky paying it right now."
Her head tilted. "Why?"
"Got fired yesterday." He said it like he was reading the weather report, casual, unbothered. He didn't mention the fight. Didn't mention the body.
Her brows lifted, softening the sharp line of her jaw. "Fuck."
He shrugged. "Cutbacks."
Holly turned to the counter, grabbing the TV remote. "We could always start a GoFundMe. 'Two degenerates in Briarwick need help with rent.'"
Grayson smirked faintly. "I'd donate to that."
She clicked the TV on, flipping through channels until the morning news played across the small screen. Grainy footage of a traffic accident. Rising housing costs. Weather updates.
"Anything interesting?" He asked, watching her more than the news.
She shook her head. "Same crap as always. Why?"
"No reason." He said, though his jaw was tight.
It didn't make sense. Someone had to have seen something. A neighbour. A passing car. But the street had been cleaned, both in reality and in the news. Maybe he'd imagined it. Maybe the whiskey had twisted his memory into something worse. But his ribs still hurt, and he could still smell the iron in the rain if he let his thoughts drift too far back.
Holly stretched, her shirt lifting just enough to reveal a flash of skin above her shorts. Grayson looked away, though not fast enough. There was history there, not the messy, burn-it-all kind, but the kind made of near-misses and quiet what-ifs.
"I'll figure it out." He said.
"You always do." She gave him a quick smile and disappeared toward her bedroom.
Grayson finished his coffee and headed for the shower. The hot water beat against his shoulder, loosening the knot of soreness from last night. In the mirror, he took stock: the faint bruise at his jaw, the wiry muscle earned from years of hauling kegs and shaking cocktails, the tired but still-sharp hazel eyes. He dressed in black jeans, a dark shirt, boots with worn laces and pulled on his jacket. He printed off a stack of resumes using the old, wheezing printer in his room, slipped them into a folder, and hit the pavement.
He knew he was good. More than good. Years behind bars — both the dodgy kind with sticky floors and the rooftop lounges where the drinks cost more than rent. Trained under a mixologist in Manhattan who treated liquor like liquid sculpture. Craft cocktails, bespoke menus, the kind of balance most people couldn't taste but felt.
The first bar wasn't hiring. The second took his resume but gave him a smile that didn't reach their eyes. And the third already had "a guy." By the time he reached the fourth, he was back in the East Quarter.
And then he saw it.
The street.
The curb where the man had fallen.
It looked untouched. No police tape. No chalk outline. No sign anything had happened there. A woman in a raincoat walked her dog across it. A courier leaned against the wall, tapping his phone.
Grayson slowed. The gutter where the blood had run was clean. Too clean. He moved on, his thoughts looping without resolution. When he got home, the apartment smelled faintly of incense and that's when he saw the sheet of paper on the counter. A job ad.
Hiring: Experienced Bar Staff. Elysium Club. Competitive pay + tips. Apply in person.
Elysium Club. He'd heard of it— part strip club, part members-only lounge, the kind of place where rich men lost control and beautiful people watched them do it. Velvet booths, red lights, private doors that stayed locked from the inside. A magnet for secrets. And trouble.
It was also offering more money than anything else in Briarwick by a long shot. He set the ad back down, staring at the cheap ink like it might shift into something else. Something clearer. Coincidence, maybe. But it didn't feel like one.
*******************
The bass throbbed low through the walls, a steady pulse that made the floor beneath Kane Blackwell's boots hum. From his place in the shadows on the second-floor balcony, he watched the club below — watched the money change hands, the drinks disappear, the dancers grind against the night's wealthiest mistakes.
A blonde knelt between his legs, her hair cascading like molten gold, the shine catching in the low amber light. She worked slow, methodical, because Kane was in no rush. One of his hands rested lazily against the back of her head, fingers sliding through her hair like she was nothing more than a pet he kept for his own amusement. His other hand nursed a glass of scotch, the ice barely melted.
Kane's eyes didn't wander. They stayed fixed on the crowd below, cataloguing faces, movements, the rhythm of money flowing through his world.
The leather booth across from him shifted as someone slid into it — a tall, broad man in a charcoal suit, tie loosened just enough to suggest he'd rather not be here in business attire at all.
"Connor," Kane said without looking at him. His voice was low, smooth, and unhurried, the kind of voice that made men lean in when he spoke.
Connor Price had been with Kane for nearly a decade. Loyal. Efficient. A man who could dispose of a problem and be home in time for dinner.
"It's done." Connor said. "No loose ends."
Kane's gaze stayed on the floor below. "Name?"
Connor's jaw ticked. "Watched the CCTV from the Anchor. Couldn't get a clear face. We questioned Lila— she gave us a description of the guy." He paused. "Name's Grayson Hale. Bartender. Unemployed as of yesterday."
The blonde made a faint sound, muffled by Kane's hand pressing her back down. His glass clinked softly as he set it aside.
"And Lila?" Kane asked, the words quiet but carrying enough weight to slow Connor's answer.
Connor's lips twitched. "Shaken, but she'll get her revenge in time. Told her to keep her mouth shut for now."
Kane finally looked at him, his pale eyes sharp even in the shadows. A faint scar ran through his right eyebrow, a pale line that cut across his skin and disappeared into the start of the ink curling up his neck. The tattoo was black, intricate, and unmistakably predatory.
Kane's gaze lingered on him for a beat too long. "See that it stays that way."
Connor hesitated before leaning back, smirking. "Also, everything's in order with the ad."
Kane's mouth curved the barest fraction. "And the landlord?"
Connor's smirk deepened. "Deed's signed. Property's yours now. The poor bastard… his heart gave out while we were discussing the terms."
"Mm." Kane's attention dropped briefly to the blonde before he pulled her back by the hair, lifting her chin so she was looking up at him. Her lipstick was smeared, her breath quick. He studied her like she was something he might sell or destroy, depending on his mood.
"Tell Jax to start screening applicants," Kane said, releasing her with a shove that sent her back on her knees. "And make sure Grayson Hale walks in thinking this is a lifeline… not a leash."
Connor gave a single nod. "Understood."
Kane leaned back again, lifting his scotch to his lips. Below, the club moved in perfect, expensive chaos, and somewhere in the city, a man named Grayson Hale was about to walk straight into his cage.