The Unseen Witness

The camera flash was a gunshot in the dark corridor, and the instant it bloomed, you knew you'd caught something you shouldn't have.

Julian Cross had his back to you, bent over a laundry cart near the service elevator. But the frame you'd stolen—before he even turned—was clear: his hands gripping a rolled rug, the edge of a pale foot slipping free, a dark stain flowering across the industrial carpet. Your breath stopped. Your finger hovered over the delete button.

Then he turned, and his face was pure glamour again, a wolf in a tuxedo. "That's the wrong exit, darling. The main hall is back that way." His smile didn't reach his eyes. He was already moving toward you, calm as a man walking a tightrope.

"Just getting a shot of the back rooms," you said, lowering the camera. Your heart hammered against your ribs.

He stopped a foot away, close enough that you smelled sandalwood and something metallic beneath. "Let me see what you captured."

The corridor hummed with the faint whir of the elevator. His hand extended, patient as a spider.