Chapter 3

The moment I lifted the access panel, dust blew down in a choking puff.

I didn’t frown. I didn’t cough.

I rolled my jacket into a bundle, set it on the toilet lid, and stepped up. From my Swiss Army knife I pulled the screwdriver, seated it into the Phillips head, and backed the screws out.

I wrapped the screws in a tissue and shoved them into my pocket. Then I raised the panel and slid it along the edge, leaving a gap just wide enough for a body.

I paused for two seconds—listened first.

Outside the restroom, it was quiet. The banquet hall’s laughter was cut off by the door, reduced to a low, blurry rumble.

I slipped into the duct. It was so narrow I could only crawl. Cold metal. Dust thick as a blanket. I pushed forward with my forearms, moving slow, making sure the panels didn’t pop or clang.

Ventilation ducts had a pattern: a main trunk running along the corridor, branches dropping into each room. I needed to get inside the suite wing.

Under the first branch was a pantry—empty, just carts and cup racks. The second was by a linen room door, shut tight. At the third, I stopped.

Below was a stretch of hallway. At the far end was the keycard gate into the suites, and I could make out the silhouettes of two men standing beyond it.

I kept going.

After the duct turned, the wind noise grew louder—meaning I was closer to the main fan. The airflow would mask the scrape of my crawl, but it would also swallow the details from below. I pressed my ear to the metal as I moved, catching what I could: footsteps, locks, the short chirp of a radio prompt.

Beneath the fourth branch, I saw a man with his back to a door, facing the hallway. Dark suit. A clear earpiece line behind his ear. He wasn’t hotel security, and he wasn’t one of the drunken “classmates” from the banquet hall.

He was Blake’s. Obviously. And he was on a door.

I was about to keep moving when my earpiece suddenly spit a burst of static.

My hand froze mid-crawl.

The next second, broken voices came through from the bug—fast, clipped, tangled with wind and running footsteps.

“...outside... what’s going on?”

“Don’t use your phone... signal’s gone.”

“Elevators are down, they sealed the lower floors—”

“Looks like cops...”

I cursed silently.

Cops.

Their lockdowns were always brutal: kill the signal, stop the elevators, throw up a perimeter, herd everyone in the same direction. It worked on small-time dealers. On someone like Blake, it was an alarm bell—telling him he’d been made.

A second later, a door opened. Blake stepped out from inside, like he was about to head back to the banquet hall.

The prey had been spooked. I had to pause the operation. It pissed me off, but I could only back-crawl, slow and controlled.

When I reached the access opening, I listened to the restroom again.

Quiet. No one coming in.

I nudged the panel open a little, stuck my head out first, and checked for shadows under the stall doors.

None. Good.

I dropped back to the floor and checked myself. The backs of my hands and the webbing between my fingers were black. My knees were worse. I wet a paper towel and wiped everything down fast.

I put the jacket back on and lifted a hand to smooth my cuffs.

Footsteps suddenly sounded outside the restroom. The next instant, the door opened.

A man came in—late twenties, short hair, suit, eyes sober. He swept the restroom once. His gaze landed on me first, then snapped to my feet, then up to the ceiling.

That wasn’t a classmate’s look. That was an inspection.

He stepped in and pulled the door shut behind him.

“What are you doing in here?”

I looked up, voice calm. “Using the bathroom.”

The corner of his mouth twitched like he might smile, but it didn’t make it. He walked to the sink, turned on the water, and washed his hands while watching my reflection in the mirror.

“Ethan, right?” he said, like it was casual. “The guy sitting in the corner at the banquet.”

I didn’t deny it or confirm it. I tossed the paper towel into the trash and started to move past him.

He spoke again, sharp. “Stop.”

I paused, but I didn’t turn around.

He stared at my knees, his voice colder. “Why are your pants so filthy?”

I said nothing.

He took a step closer. His eyes dropped to the backs of my hands—dust still in the lines, black in the seams of my fingers.

Then he lifted his head, gaze locking onto the ceiling access panel.

His pupils widened slightly, like the answer had just clicked into place.

In that moment he understood: I wasn’t some washed-up classmate looking for a way back in.

His hand went to his waist. His jacket lifted, and the butt of a gun showed.

I still didn’t move. I even let my shoulders loosen, making myself look softer.

He thought he had the jump on me. The pistol wasn’t even fully out when he forced the words through his teeth:

“You were up in the vents. You’re not here to piss—who the hell are you?”

I stepped forward, closing the distance to arm’s length.

He instinctively shifted back half a step, yanking the gun faster, the muzzle just starting to rise—

I moved.