Chapter 26: Behind the Curtain (Silas POV)

The loft’s heavy with silence, Nico’s arms around me, his breath shaky after the tabloid’s lies hit us both. My phone’s still on the floor, that post—“Silas Reed ran Cole Kelly off the road”—burning in my head, twisting my guilt into something worse. Nico’s name’s mud now, tied to drugs and fraud, and I’m dragged in, accused of murder. “We can’t sit here,” I say, loud, pulling back, standing fast. He looks up, eyes red. “What then?” he asks, voice rough. “The fixer,” I say, firm. “Mercer. We meet him.”

Nico nods, slow, grabbing his jacket. “Okay,” he says, quiet, standing too. “But we watch him.” I agree, fast, texting Mercer’s number from last night—“Now, where?” He replies quick: “Old theater, 9th, 20 minutes.” We’re out, streets cold and dark, my heart pounding as we head to the spot—an abandoned place, boards on windows, paint peeling. The door’s cracked open, and we slip in, dust thick, seats busted, stage lit by a single bulb.

Mercer’s there, leaning on the stage, suit sharp, smirk gone. “You’re late,” he says, low, voice smooth but hard. I step closer, Nico beside me, tense. “We’re here,” I say, loud. “Fix this.” He nods, slow, looking us over. “Tabloid’s loud,” he says, calm. “Your mess is big now. Drugs, fraud, death.” Nico flinches, fast, and I grab his hand, tight. “Lies,” I say, sharp. “You said you’d bury it.” He shrugs, small. “Can,” he says. “But it’s deeper than you think.”

I frown, leaning in. “What’s that mean?” I ask, voice rough. He steps off the stage, slow, pacing a little. “This isn’t just a video,” he says, firm. “It’s a network—blackmail, cover-ups, big players.” My chest tightens, and Nico’s grip hardens. “Who?” he asks, loud, stepping up. Mercer stops, looks at us, eyes dark. “High society,” he says, slow. “Local government, corporate suits. Power, real power.”

My head spins, Cole’s crash flashing—files, “eliminated,” now this. “They’re after us?” I ask, quiet, staring at him. He nods, steady. “You stumbled in,” he says. “Video was bait, but you’ve got more—files, proof.” Nico shakes his head, fast. “Proof of what?” he yells, voice breaking. Mercer’s calm, voice low. “Darker stuff,” he says. “Drugs, sure, but murders, deals, things they bury deep.” My stomach drops—this isn’t small, it’s huge, and we’re caught in it.

I pace, fast, dust kicking up. “Why us?” I ask, loud, turning back. “Why drag us down?” He leans on a chair, slow. “You’re loud,” he says, simple. “Nico’s fame, your digging. They don’t like noise.” Nico’s breathing hard, eyes wide. “My career,” he says, quiet, sinking into a seat. “They used it.” I nod, slow, feeling it—Cole’s death, Nico’s fall, all tied to these shadows. “How big?” I ask, sharp, stepping closer.

Mercer crosses his arms, voice steady. “Big,” he says. “Cops take cash, mayors look away, CEOs run it. You’re ants to them.” My hands shake, anger rising—Cole, gone for this, us next maybe. “You’re part of it,” I say, loud, pointing at him. He shakes his head, slow. “I’m outside,” he says, calm. “Fixer, not player. I move pieces, don’t own the board.” Nico stands, fast. “Then fix us,” he says, sharp. “You promised.”

Mercer nods, slow, pulling a paper from his coat, sliding it over. “One lead,” he says, quiet. “Name: Vance. Runs the middle, knows the top.” I grab it, fast—Vance, from the files, the club, Cole’s notes. “This real?” I ask, loud, holding it up. He nods, steady. “Yeah,” he says. “But listen—once you start down this path, no turning back.” My gut twists, and Nico’s beside me, reading it too, face pale.

“What’s that mean?” Nico asks, voice shaky, looking at him. Mercer steps closer, eyes hard. “They’ll know,” he says, low. “You chase Vance, you’re in deep—danger, real danger.” I feel it—club owner, gunshots, threats—and nod, slow. “We’re already in,” I say, firm, gripping the paper. Nico’s quiet, torn, and I grab his arm, soft. “Right?” I ask, quiet. He nods, small, but his hands tremble, scared bad.

Mercer watches us, steady, voice smooth again. “I’ll pull strings,” he says. “Tabloid quiets, debts ease, but Vance is yours.” I shake my head, fast. “Why help?” I ask, loud. “What’s your game?” He smirks, small, adjusting his coat. “I like balance,” he says, simple. “You’re tipping it. I fix, I win.” My skin crawls—he’s slick, too slick, but we need him, and that stings.

Nico’s beside me, voice low. “Can we trust him?” he asks, quiet, eyes on me. I shrug, slow. “No,” I say, soft. “But he’s got reach.” Mercer heads for the back, slow, turning once. “Decide fast,” he says, firm. “Vance moves, they move.” I nod, fast, paper tight in my hand, feeling the weight—this network, big and dark, swallowing us whole.

We’re alone, theater quiet, when glass shatters loud, back wall exploding in. Mercer spins, fast, ducking low as a figure rushes him—dark coat, fast, swinging something hard. “Run!” he yells, loud, dodging a hit, blood on his face already. My heart jumps, and I grab Nico, pulling him back. “Go!” I say, sharp, shoving him toward the door. Mercer’s fighting, barely, taking hits, and he bolts, stumbling out a side exit, alive but hurt.

We freeze, breaths loud, staring at the dark—high stakes, real now, blood on the floor proving it.