Chapter 60: Sixty One

Inside the velvet booth, the atmosphere had been light only moments before. Saint had been detailing a ridiculous mishap from a site-visiting lecture, his hands gesturing fluidly in the dim crimson light, while Laira leaned against his shoulder, her laughter a bright, clear sound against the ambient lounge music. The twin brothers, Jim and Tim, were nursing their drinks, smiling at the easy rhythm of the night.

Then, the air in the room didn’t just shift,it froze.

A figure stepped out of the amber shadows near the VIP corridor. He hadn’t been invited.

He didn’t belong to the architecture crowd or the design department, but he had blended into the dense, upscale crowd with the practiced ease of someone who owned every room he walked into.

It was Tommy Benson.

He was wearing an impeccably tailored dark wool coat, his hair neatly pushed back, looking every bit the heir to the Benson real estate empire. But beneath the wealth and the sharp jawline lay a hollow, volatile dark energy. Tommy was rich, and he was completely, dangerously unhinged. He was the ghost that had haunted Laira’s past,a man who had put her through a psychological warfare so severe it had taken her a year of hiding and a complete change of circle just to break free.

Laira’s laughter died instantly, the color draining from her lips until she looked like stone. "Tom? What... what are you doing here?!"

The response from the booth was immediate. Jim and Tim stood up in unison, their broad, identical frames instantly creating a physical wall between the intruder and the girl.

Tim’s voice was like gravel. "Leave."

But amid the sudden defensive wall of his friends, Saint remained uncharacteristically quiet. The silver-tongued, charismatic student who always had a sharp retort or a joke was completely silent. He was the only one who remained sitting in the velvet booth, his fingers curled loosely around the glass of whiskey in his hand, his eyes fixed on the amber liquid.

Tommy didn't even glance at the twins. His eyes were wide, bloodshot, and burning with a terrifying, singular intensity. "I'm not here for you, Lair. Please step back."

Laira blinked through her panic, her hand gripping Jim’s jacket for support. "What?"

"Please step back. All of you," Tommy repeated, his voice dropping into a dangerously calm, polite register that made the hairs on the back of Tim’s neck stand up.

"I wouldn't like you guys to be involved in this. This has nothing to do with you."

The twins and Laira all looked down at the person Tommy was staring at with such undisguised venom. It wasn't Laira. Tommy wasn't looking at his ex-girlfriend at all. His focus was locked entirely on Saint, who still hadn't moved an inch, the glass still steady in his hand.

Tommy stepped closer, his boots clicking on the polished floor. "Saint. Let me speak with you."

Saint still didn't look up at him. He swirled the whiskey, watching the ice cube press against the glass.

"Saint," Tommy demanded, his calm facade starting to crack, a raw, jagged edge bleeding into his voice.

Saint bit his bottom lip, a slow, deliberate movement. Then, he finally raised his eyes. A sharp, completely fake smile plastered across his lips,the smile of a man who knew he was cornered but refused to let his opponent see him sweat.

"Tommy," Saint said smoothly.

"Let's speak outside. Now," Tommy said, his hands digging into the pockets of his coat.

Saint tilted his head, his fake smile widening slightly. "Why so serious? It's a party, Tom. I can't just—"

BANG.

The sound was deafening, a localized explosion that shattered the ambient jazz and the chatter of the lounge. Tommy had pulled a sleek, matte-black semi-automatic from his coat with terrifying speed. He didn't aim for Saint's chest, he fired directly at the glass Saint was holding.

The bullet shattered the heavy crystal into a thousand sparkling shards, spraying whiskey and glass across the velvet cushions.

The shock of the blast sent Saint jumping to his feet, his composure instantly evaporating as he stumbled backward against the wall of the booth. Screams erupted throughout the lounge,high-pitched, frantic shrieks of pure terror as patrons realized what the noise was. People threw themselves under tables, scrambling toward the fire exits in a wave of blind panic.

Tommy leveled the barrel directly at the center of Saint's forehead, his hand perfectly steady. "Outside. Now!"

Saint's eyes popped open, the arrogant, charming student completely replaced by a young man looking down the barrel of his own mortality. "Wha... what...?! Are you crazy, Tommy?!"

"I will shoot you dead right here," Tommy hissed, his face contorting into something demonic, the wealth and polish entirely gone.

"I'm not fucking playing with you, Saint! Get your ass outside!"

Saint raised his hands, his palms flat and visible, his head nodding in a rapid, desperate compliance. "Okay. Okay, Tom. Just calm down. I’m moving."

"Go!" Tommy snarled, gesturing with the barrel toward the back service door that led into the dark alleyway.

Behind them, Laira and the remaining partygoers were completely incapacitated by fear. Laira was frozen against the back of the booth, shivering uncontrollably, her hands over her mouth, while Jim and Tim were slowly lowering themselves to the floor, their eyes fixed on the weapon, unable to make a move without risking Saint's life.

The back door wheezed shut, cutting off the distant, frantic sounds of the lounge. The alleyway was cold, dark, and smelled of wet brick and old iron. The single sodium streetlight cast long, distorted shadows against the walls.

"We're outside," Saint said, his voice trembling as he turned to face Tommy. He was breathing heavily, his chest rising and falling in short, jagged gasps. The cold air hit the sweat on his forehead, turning it to ice. "We're outside, Tom. Lower the gun."

Tommy didn't lower it. He stepped forward, the black metal of the barrel reflecting the dull orange light of the streetlamp. "Why did you do it?"

"Tommy—"

"You ruined my life!" Tommy screamed, the words tearing out of his throat like a physical wound. The manic energy was vibrating through his limbs. "For what?! For a headline? For your own sick amusement?! Maybe I should shoot you dead right now. Right here in the dirt where you belong."

Saint kept his hands high, his mind working at a frantic, desperate speed. He could feel the cold brick of the building behind him. There was no one coming to save him. Hunter had left early, the twins were trapped inside, and the cops were minutes away at best. He had to use the only weapon he had left, his tongue.

"And then what?" Saint asked, trying to force his voice into a steady, rational rhythm despite the adrenaline screaming in his ears. "You shoot me, Tommy. You pull that trigger. And then what? You won't get anything out of it."

"Won't I?" Tommy let out a high-pitched, hysterical laugh, his finger twitching against the trigger guard. "I'll get the satisfaction of killing you. I’ll get the satisfaction of watching the light leave your eyes, you smug bastard. Won't that feel good? Won't that fix everything you broke?!"

"And then you'll go to prison," Saint countered, his eyes locked on Tommy’s twitching hand. "Look around you, Tom. You're already in deep trouble. You shot up a public lounge. You think no one in that party called the cops the second you pulled that out? The sirens are probably turning onto the avenue right now."

Tommy’s jaw worked, his eyes darting toward the end of the alley, but the gun stayed level.

"Where did you even get that gun, Tommy?" Saint pressed, his voice dropping into a lower, softer register, trying to draw the crazy out of the air. "Is it even legal? Your father’s lawyers can't pull you out of a federal weapons charge. You could get serious jail time just for having that in your hand right now. Don't throw your whole life away just because you're angry."

"Don't patronize me, Saint!" Tommy roared, taking a step closer, the barrel now inches from Saint's face. "Don't you dare talk to me like I’m a child! You knew exactly what you were doing when you dug into my family's books! You knew what it would do!"

Saint kept his hands perfectly high, his palms flat against the dark air of the alley. "Can't we talk about this calmer? We can figure this out, Tom. There are ways to fix—"

"Calmer? Fuck you, Saint!" Tommy spat, the spit flying from his lips. "You didn't want to talk calmer when you leaked those documents to the Capital Council! You wanted blood! Well, now you’ve got it!"

The distant, unmistakable wail of a police siren cut through the night air, echoing from the main avenue blocks away. The sound seemed to break the spell of Tommy’s manic focus. His eyes went wide, his head snapping toward the sound, the black gun trembling in his hand as the reality of the city began to close in around his madness.