I rewatch the April 25 footage again.
Nathan drags Clara forward. She twists back, her face etched with worry and fear. Jason rushes in, grabs her other arm. They argue—sharp, fast—then Jason's fist snaps across Nathan's cheek.
Security floods in, separating them. Jimmy takes Clara away.
No John.No Mr. Silence.
I lean back into the chair, staring at the frozen frame.
That was two weeks before she disappeared.
And I'm still nowhere.
"Pi… review what we know."
"Based on your notes," Pi replies, "one: security footage does not show Clara exiting the club on the night of her disappearance. Two: you searched for hidden exits within accessible areas and found none. Three: Clara's historical behavior shows she consistently used rideshare pickup at the front entrance. Four: external surveillance across the street would have captured rear exit movement. No such footage exists."
I exhale slowly.
"So there are only two possibilities. One—she left through the back and something happened on the way home. Two—someone inside the club removed her without taking her through any visible exit."
"Correct."
"Which is more likely?"
A pause.
"Neither."
I frown. "What do you mean neither?"
"Both scenarios assume Clara exited the building."
I go still.
"There is no confirmed record—visual, digital, or behavioral—of Clara Smith exiting Akira Lounge."
The words sink in, heavy.
"If she didn't leave…" I whisper.
"Then she remained within a controlled environment."
I shake my head immediately. "No. I checked the place. There's nowhere to keep someone without being seen."
"There is nowhere you were allowed to access."
My fingers stop moving.
The club layout flashes in my head—the long hallway.
Public spaces. Staff areas.
Private rooms.
Rooms no one questions.
My pulse slows.
"…Room Twenty-One."
Pi doesn't respond.
She doesn't have to.
"Run Jimmy's movement on Saturday night."
"Processing."
The footage loads.
Jimmy walking about the club as usual.
"Compare his movement that night with previous nights."
"Two unusual incidents. One, he had to prevent John's man from entering the premises. Two, he took out the trash."
My stomach tightens. "Took out the trash?"
"The security guard usually take out the trash at the end of the night."
The screen shows Jimmy pushing the trash bin from the back toward the front.
That trash bin sits beside the back exit.
Right next to Room Twenty-One.
My pulse slows.
"That's… not routine."
"No," Pi confirms. "Deviation from standard operational behavior."
I lean forward, eyes narrowing at the footage.
Jimmy doesn't rush.Doesn't look around.Doesn't hesitate.
Like it's just another task.
Like nothing's wrong.
But everything is.
"Run the timestamp," I say.
"Sunday. 9:14 a.m."
I replay the earlier footage in my head.
The trash bin.
My stomach tightens.
"No one checks trash," I murmur.
"Correct."
My fingers curl against the desk.
"No cameras inside it. No behavior pattern. No exit record."
A beat.
Then it clicks.
"She didn't walk out."
Silence.
"She was taken out."
Pi doesn't respond.
She doesn't have to.
My gaze fixes on the screen.
Room Twenty-One.Jimmy.The trash route.
Not a coincidence.
A system.
I stand, already reaching for my jacket.
"I searched the club…"
I let out a quiet breath.
"But I wasn't looking for the right thing."
My hand tightens around my keys.
"This time…"
I turn toward the door.
"I am."
###
"Should I tell her to come?" Jason asks.
Mohamad looks at him.
A beat passes. Then another. "Why?"
Jason frowns, thrown off. "You prebooked her. And you actually have time tonight since—"
"No."
The word lands flat. Final.
Jason studies him, something unreadable flickering across his face. But Mohamad has already turned away, gaze shifting to the blur of city lights slipping past the tinted glass.
Silence fills the car.
He doesn't move. Doesn't speak. But the thought comes anyway. Uninvited. Unwanted.
What is she doing right now?
His jaw tightens slightly.
He could have her here in minutes. A call. A command. That's all it would take.
But that's not how it was.
Not in that room. Not when she walked in on her own. Not when she chose to stay.
His fingers curl once against his palm—controlled, deliberate.
Then still again.
The limo comes to a stop in front of Akira Lounge.
Mohamad doesn't wait.
He pushes the door open himself and steps out, buttoning his suit as he straightens. His gaze settles on the entrance—lingering a second too long.
They've brought clients here for years.
Tonight, it looks different.
He turns.
Jason is mid-step behind him, but stops instantly when their eyes meet.
A beat.
Mohamad's jaw tightens. His lips part—
The words press up, sharp, immediate—
Bring her.
They don't make it out.
He doesn't give commands he can't control the outcome of.
And with her—there would be no control.
His expression hardens instead. The moment seals shut, buried under years of discipline.
"Let's go."
He turns before Jason can answer.
A few steps in, Jason lets out a quiet sigh behind him.Mohamad's jaw tightens.
Focus.
Control first. Everything else follows.
He steps forward with the same measured precision that built his empire.
One step.
Two—
He stops.
Not gradually.
All at once.
His gaze locks.
There.
Gold.
She stands out immediately—impossible not to. The dress catches the light, molten against her skin. Every line of her draws the eye.
And she's—
Not alone.
A man's arm is around her.
Something in his chest snaps tight.
The world narrows. Sound dulls. Movement blurs.
His heartbeat turns violent—sharp, erratic—too fast.
Wrong.
His body moves before the thought finishes forming.
Two strides.
That's all it takes.
His hand closes around her wrist—firm, unyielding—and he pulls her away.