Chapter 35: "The Break-Room Tape" Julian POV
I'm at Sam's place, staring at that live feed of Victor in The Mirage's backroom, him pacing, talking to some shadowy bloke, and my heart's still racing. It's late, past midnight, and I can't sit here doing nothing, not after seeing that. Marcus is out there, lost to me since I walked out, but Claire, she's the key, her and Victor, and I've got to prove it. My hands are shaky, and I turn to Sam, sprawled on his sofa, laptop glowing. "We've got to go back," I say, voice rough. "The Mirage, now. There's a camera Diego told me about, break-room one. Might have something."
Sam sits up, rubbing his eyes, looking tired but worried. "Back there? Jules, it's mad, you're sacked, and Victor's roaming." I nod, fast, pulling my jacket on. "I know, but Claire's in this deep, set us up, framed me. That camera, it's a long shot, but Diego said it catches everything." Sam's nervous, I can tell, his hands fidgeting, but he grabs his hoodie, muttering, "You're nuts, mate, but I'm in." My chest eases a bit, he's solid, Sam is, and we're out, sneaking through Vegas's dark streets, neon flickering above us like a bad dream.
The Mirage looms ahead, big and loud, even this late, slots chiming, lights buzzing, and my stomach's tight as we slip round the back. I'm bruised up from the ambush, legs sore, but I push it down, leading Sam to a staff door I still have a key for. "Quiet," I whisper, unlocking it, and we're in, hallways dim, air thick with smoke and sweat. Sam's close, breathing quick, and I'm thinking, Diego, that slick high-roller, tipped me off months ago, said the break-room camera's hidden, catches staff slacking. If Claire planted those chips in my locker, it might've caught her.
We creep through, past the kitchens, and I'm sweating, scared we'll get nabbed, scared I'll see Marcus and freeze. The break room's down a side hall, small, messy, with a vending machine humming, and I point Sam to a corner. "There," I say, low, "behind the notice board, Diego said it's tucked in." Sam nods, pulling a tiny screwdriver from his pocket, proper tech nerd, and gets to work, prying the board loose. My heart's pounding, and I'm keeping watch, ears sharp for any sound, cleaners, security, anyone.
The board shifts, and Sam grins, quiet. "Got it, old camera, wired up." He plugs his laptop in, fingers flying, and I'm next to him, peering at the screen as it flickers to life. "Pull the logs," I say, urgent, "back to the frame-up, week ago." He nods, scrolling dates, and my chest's tight, hoping, dreading what we'll find. The feed's grainy, black-and-white, showing the break room, tables, lockers, staff coming and going. Sam stops, points. "Here, last Tuesday, 2 a.m., after your shift." I lean in, holding my breath, and there she is, Claire, blonde hair tied back, moving fast.
She's at my locker, mine, number 17, and my stomach drops as I watch. She's got chips in her hand, marked ones, slipping them inside, quick and sneaky. Then she turns, smirking, and says it, clear as day, voice sharp even on the crap audio, "Marcus'll break now." My heart stops, and I'm frozen, staring at her, gloating, proud, like she's won. Sam whistles, low, "Bloody hell, Jules, she's cold." I can't speak, just watch as she shuts the locker, walks out, leaving my life in pieces.
My hands ball up, and I'm shaking, anger, hurt, all mixing up. "She did it," I mutter, voice trembling, and Sam looks at me, worried. "Proof, mate, right here." But it's not just proof, it's a knife, twisting deep. Marcus's choice, giving me that $5,000 voucher, Victor's dirty cash, cost Ethan, Claire's brother, and now her revenge has cost me everything. My job, my trust, my, my Marcus. I slump against the wall, head spinning, and it's hitting me, he picked me, yeah, but it broke her, and she broke us.
I rub my face, rough, feeling gutted, proper gutted. "He didn't tell me," I say, quiet, and Sam turns, frowning. "What?" I swallow, throat tight. "The voucher, hush money, not rent. Chose me over Ethan, and Claire, she's killing us for it." My voice cracks, and I'm seeing it, three weeks ago, his lips on mine, warm and sure, and now this tape, her smirk, tearing it apart. Sam's hand lands on my shoulder, light, and he says, "He's a mess, Jules, but he loves you, saw it when he bailed me out." I want to believe him, want it bad, but I'm too raw, too wrecked.
The room's stuffy, vending machine humming loud, and I'm staring at the screen, Claire's face frozen, gloating. My chest hurts, and I'm thinking, Ethan's dying, and Marcus picked me, and I'm paying for it, bruised and sacked and alone. "We've got her," I say, slow, "but it doesn't fix this." Sam nods, grim, saving the clip to a USB. "It's a start, mate, clears you, maybe." I take it, small and cold in my hand, and I'm wondering, can it clear us, me and Marcus? Or is it too late?
I'm about to say more, tell Sam to pack up, when he stiffens, head snapping up. "Wait," he whispers, voice tight, and I freeze, listening. Footsteps, slow, heavy, echo down the hall, getting closer. My heart jumps, and I grab his arm, pulling him down behind the table. "Someone's coming," he says, low, scared, and I nod, breath caught, Victor? Security? Claire?, as the steps stop, right outside the door, and my skin's crawling, trapped in the dark.