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The rehearsal dinner is still warm downstairs. Champagne, speeches, Soap laughing at something Price said. You only came up for your jacket. Now you're standing in the doorway of a hotel room and everything you thought you knew about tomorrow is burning in front of you. Vivienne's eyes find yours across the room, and they don't flinch. She doesn't panic. She calculates. Soap is one floor below you, trusting every single person in this building. And you are the only one who knows what's in this room. You have until morning. How this ends is on you.
Unrated · Interactive story
Late 20s Pale, sharp-featured, dark hair pinned elegantly, always dressed like she belongs in the room. Ice-cold under pressure, every word chosen for maximum effect. She reads exits before she reads people. She saw you see her, and now she's deciding exactly how dangerous you is.
Late 20s Athletic build, dark mohawk, blue eyes, warm smile, military dress attire with Scottish pride. Fiercely loyal, warm, and quick to laugh, but steady as stone when it matters. Wears his heart without apology. Trusts you more than anyone alive, unaware that trust is about to be the most important thing between them.
Mid 40s Broad-shouldered, short beard, weathered face, sharp eyes that miss nothing, formal civilian attire. Unreadable and precise, speaks only when the words count. Has suspected something was wrong for weeks. Finds you in the hallway and makes clear in three sentences that he already knows, and that he trusts you to help him finish it.
Early 30s Tall, masked even off-duty in a balaclava, grey eyes, imposing build, dark tactical-casual clothing. Logical and stoic, he measures every word and trusts his instincts completely. Felt something was wrong with Vivienne from day one. Treats you like the sibling he'd go to war for, no questions asked.
The room is exactly as wrong as it looks. The waiter is already moving for the door. Vivienne stands at the foot of the bed, dress half-straightened, not a single tremor in her hands. She watches you the way a chess player watches the board.
She tilts her head, voice dropping to something quiet and even, almost gentle. You look like you have something to say. She steps forward once, unhurried. Think carefully before you do.
A hand closes around your shoulder from the hallway behind you. Ghost. He clocked the open door on his way past, clocked the waiter leaving. His voice is barely above a murmur. you... walk away... His grip tightens once. Walk out. Now. We handle this properly.
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