Vance grabbed the ashtray from the counter and hurled it across the room.
It shattered against the wall inches from Kyrion's ear, porcelain exploding like a gunshot. Shards rained down, skittering across the marble floor but Kyrion didn't flinch. He stood where he was, spine straight, hands clasped behind his back—granite in a storm.
"You had one job!" Vance roared. The sound tore through the room, raw and unrestrained. "One. To keep an eye on him. And now you're standing here telling me he just vanished? Someone was supposed to keep an eye on that fucking door!"
Vance dragged his hands through his hair, pacing in tight, erratic circles. The anger was there—obvious, volatile—but Kyrion saw the other thing riding beneath it.
Panic. Disbelief.
The last time Vance had panicked like that - he had drowned the streets of West in their own blood. That was also the last time Vance had cared for someone and lost him.
Kyrion hoped to never see that Vance again.
"He never stepped out of that door," Kyrion said evenly. His voice was low, steady, unprovoked by the chaos around him. "I was myself stationed there the entire night. I didn't budge."
Vance stopped short, turning on him. "And was that your only job, Kyrion?" he snapped. "To stand outside my door like a fucking statue?"
"No," Kyrion admitted, after a pause.
"Then where is he?" Vance growled. His eyes were bloodshot now, fever-bright. "If he jumped out this window—" He moved behind the counter, gesturing sharply toward the only other exit in that room. "—someone should have been watching that side. How did he even get them open? They are controlled by my biometrics. He did not drag me all the way, that much I swear!"
Vance gave Kyrion a hard look before looking upon the window that seemed completely unharmed.
They were made of bulletproof glass and did not open until it heard Vance's command followed by a quick scan of his biometrics. He had always preferred security over convenience.
Kyrion followed his gaze. He exhaled slowly, almost too quiet to hear.
"The system wasn't overridden the way you're thinking," he said steadily. "No biometrics were cracked. No alarms were tripped."
Vance let out a sharp, humorless laugh. "Then enlighten me. Because my house doesn't open itself."
Kyrion inclined his head slightly. A concession. Not an apology.
Something Vance admired in the two brothers. This indomitable spirit and unapologetic arrogance! It almost made him overlook their origins.
"Our security isn't unique, Vance. None of the East End estates are. They're all serviced by the same player—The Weatheringtons. Whole of the East Elites mindlessly ape what their top echelons pursue. They are like the flagrant courtiers of the past just walking in modern day suits. Weatheringtons are gold. Trusted names. But they deploy the same installer, softwares, and security protocol mostly."
Vance's jaw tightened.
Kyrion turned toward the window and drew the curtains aside. At first glance, the panel looked seamless—an unbroken sheet of white, polished to the point of deception. He pressed two fingers against it, not where one would expect, but along the frame, low and near the corner.
A faint line flared to life.
The panel slid back silently, revealing not the night beyond, but a narrow service cavity embedded into the wall.
"This system was never meant to be breached from the inside," Kyrion said evenly. "It was built to keep intruders out. That's where the flaw lies."
He reached in and exposed the concealed maintenance panel—flush-mounted, unmarked, the kind installers forgot existed once the walls were sealed.
"The biometric lock governs normal access," he continued. "But during installation and emergency servicing, the system allows an override." He glanced back at Vance. "It requires an engineer-level access code. Not something your guards have."
"Only the agency has it," Vance snapped.
"Yes." Kyrion's eyes stayed on him. "And that is the problem."
Silence settled between them, heavy and brittle.
"Once that code is compromised," Kyrion went on, "it doesn't open one house. Sometimes it opens many. The agency rotates staff and one compromised staff may hold a key to many such establishments."
"Not our engineers, Kyrion!" Vance objected curtly. "Regales pay a hefty sum to ensure that."
Kyrion did not flinch. "But Regales share the staff among themselves and not all Regales are as careful about their protocols as us. To study these security system, there are plenty of vacation houses Elites own where they often entertain the whore from the West."
Vance turned away, pacing, hands flexing like he wanted to tear something apart and couldn't decide what.
"You expect me to believe," he said tightly, "that a college student understands our security systems better than my own engineers? And even if I humor that insanity—how did he walk past every guard in this house without being seen?"
Kyrion hesitated. Not from fear—but from certainty.
"I'm not proud to say this," he said finally, "but he slipped out of my sight earlier yesterday. Briefly."
Vance's head snapped up.
"I found him in the drawing room," Kyrion went on. "Near the back corridors. That wing was built close to the boundary wall as the servant quarters, service passages and auxiliary exits occupy quite a portion on that side. If the guard rotations are studied carefully, and a distraction is timed precisely, that stretch can be crossed in minutes."
He paused, choosing accuracy over comfort.
"If he used a servant access card during that window, neither the system nor our men would register it. A night-shift servant was found unconscious near those corridors shortly after. That explains the gap."
Silence fell.
Vance stared at him, eyes burning. "You're telling me," he said slowly, dangerously, "that in the few minutes he was out of your sight, he somehow planned all of this? Miraculously landed his hand on the access codes?"
"And the drunken act?" Vance continued, his voice rising again. "That was just theatre? He humiliated me—played helpless—to do what, exactly?"