Chapter 2

I stood and drifted toward the banquet hall’s main entrance, nodding at coworkers as I passed, like I was just heading to the restroom.

The moment I pushed the door open, the noise of the party dropped by half. The corridor lighting was cooler, and the air smelled faintly of disinfectant.

I walked a few steps toward the elevator, pulled out my phone, and checked again—still no signal. Not even a single bar.

I tried a few spots: by the wall, right in front of the elevator doors, at the corner of the hall. I even raised the phone overhead. The screen stayed blank and clean in a way that felt almost insulting.

When I first arrived, I’d noticed the reception was weak. I hadn’t cared. Later, when it died completely, I’d chalked it up to being out in the countryside.

Now, looking back, it fit too well.

This wasn’t bad coverage. It was part of a plan.

Someone had switched on a signal jammer after we got here.

People in the banquet hall were already tipsy, and the reception had been spotty to begin with. Most of them had complained about “terrible service” the moment they arrived. Now that it was gone entirely, they’d either curse the carrier or shove their phones back into their pockets and keep drinking.

No one would jump from “no signal” to “someone is jamming us.”

I didn’t know who had slipped me that message on the napkin. I didn’t know if they’d called the police. Either way, I couldn’t stake my odds on a stranger.

I kept moving down the corridor until I reached the restrooms.

I didn’t speed up. If anything, I made my pace casual, like I’d just stepped out for air.

I checked that the restroom was empty, then stopped at the sink, loosened my tie, and looked at my reflection in the mirror wall: dress shirt, cuff links, collar slightly open—an office guy. Nothing about me that demanded attention.

I glanced at the time.

Eleven o’clock.

One hour left. The note had been clear: at twelve, if they didn’t find me, the bombs would go off.

Police response takes time. Bomb disposal takes time. Even if I could place a call right now and give them the address, the countdown would still win.

Worse, if I announced there was a bomb, the people hunting me would lock onto me immediately. They weren’t here to protect anyone—they were here to confirm whether Night Owl was on site. The second I acted out of place, I’d hand them their answer. In the worst case, they’d detonate early and turn the banquet hall into my grave, with plenty of collateral.

So it had to be me.

And it had to be quiet.

I needed to find four devices within an hour, pull the critical components, and make sure none of them could fire at midnight. At the same time, I had to keep playing the same role I’d played for a year—the harmless office worker Blake Hall could bully in public—so no one’s eyes stayed on me for too long.

I ran the tap and washed my hands, using the motion to study the pipes and the cabinet under the sink.

The cabinet door didn’t seal completely; there was a gap at the bottom. When I crouched, I saw something that didn’t belong: black tape, thin wires, and a small box fixed to the back of the wooden panel.

Crude placement. Effective design.

I didn’t waste time mapping the whole mechanism. I didn’t need to. I just needed it dead.

I reached into the cabinet, peeled back the tape by feel, found the power lead on the side of the box, and tore it loose. Next to it was a thinner wire held under a tight clip—not power, but a trigger line. Once the timer tugged it, a striker inside would move.

I pried the clip open with a fingernail and slipped the wire free. With the trigger line slack, the box could keep “counting” all it wanted. It would be nothing but plastic and dead intent.

I stood, turned the faucet up to create steady background noise, then stepped into a stall and locked the door. I lifted the toilet lid, dropped the stripped trigger line into the bowl, and flushed. The rush of water was loud enough to swallow any small sound I’d made.

When the flush ended, I waited two more seconds to be sure nothing remained, then came out, washed my hands again, dried them, and straightened my collar.

In the mirror, my face looked normal. I could even fake that faint, worn look of someone who’d had a little too much to drink.

I left the restroom and headed back down the corridor.

At the elevator, I checked my phone one more time. Still dead.

I put it away and reorganized the remaining targets in my head: at least two more in the banquet hall, and maybe one in the corridor or near the stairwell.

The banquet hall had the most people. It came first.

When I stepped back through the doors, the noise hit like someone cranking a dial to maximum.

My expression stayed calm—the same “back from the restroom” face—my pace unhurried. I grabbed a glass of water from a passing tray on the way in, as if I’d just stepped out to sober up.

I made a slow lap around the room, looking like I was trying to find a group to join, not like I was searching for anything.

Then I drifted toward the bar.

Behind the bar were storage cabinets and cleaning bins. The bartender was busy shaking and pouring, back turned to me.

I set my glass on the counter as if I were waiting for a refill, but my eyes tracked the underside of the bar.

I spotted the second device quickly: a small box taped to the inner support beam, wrapped in black tape, wiring routed along the wood and tucked into the shadow of a light strip.

When the bartender turned to grab ice, my hand slid in from the edge of the counter. It looked like I was just resting my fingers there. In reality, my fingertips had already found the box.

My movements stayed light. I lifted one corner of tape, felt for the power connection, then pinned the latch with a nail and pulled the trigger line free.

I didn’t keep it. As I turned away, I flipped open the small trash lid behind the bar and dropped the piece into a cleaning bucket. It was full of lemon peels, coaster scraps, and used napkins. No one was going digging in there.

Two down.

I didn’t linger. With the water glass in my hand, I looped toward the other side of the room.

A decorated column stood at the edge of the dance floor, wrapped in light strips, with a few potted plants at its base—close enough that people posed there for photos, but rarely the kind of place anyone looked down.

As I approached, I slowed on purpose, like I was searching for someone. A coworker stumbled out of the dance floor and nearly bumped me. I pivoted aside, and in the same motion my palm pressed lightly against the base of the column.

My fingertips found an unnatural bump: a third box taped to the back of the column, perfectly hidden in the plant’s shadow.

I crouched as if I were tying my shoe.

Like the first two, I didn’t “disarm” it in a cinematic way. I removed the part that mattered, slipped it into the potting soil, and covered it with fallen leaves and decorative moss.

No one would pick it up. And it wouldn’t show up in any quick search by security.

Three down.

I stood, took a sip of water, and let my gaze drift—casual, almost bored—past the main entrance and the terrace door.

The placement of the contracted security made my skin crawl. They moved like they’d been trained: two kept steady pressure on the corridor by the main entrance, while two others kept shifting their focus between the terrace and the crowd in the center.

Not a single moment of slack.

Too professional for a company banquet.

Their earpieces were standardized. Their hand signals were standardized. Even the angles they used when turning felt practiced.

I slipped back to the edge of the room, into a pocket of shadow, and on the surface went back to being the guy killing time with napkin origami. In my pocket, my fingers counted time.

A little past eleven-forty. I’d neutralized three devices.

One left.

I replayed the route in my head: one in the restroom, two in the banquet hall.

I’d checked the obvious hiding points—vents overhead, access panels. The screws were rusted, dust undisturbed. No recent tampering. It wasn’t up there.

I’d found the restroom one.

That meant the last device had to be near the stairwell side.