The silk evening gown fit perfectly. Deep emerald, shimmering under the light.
Evelyn stood in front of the floor-to-ceiling mirror, admiring the line of her own neck. Behind her, kneeling on the Persian rug, was Conrad—a portfolio manager who had brought her up here an hour ago expecting an easy night.
His pale yellow, vein-threaded eyes stared blankly at the floor.
"What is your total liquid net worth, Conrad?" Evelyn asked, adjusting a diamond earring she had taken from his fiancée's jewelry box.
"Three point two million dollars." His voice was flat, all the arrogance gone.
Evelyn frowned at her reflection. "Not enough. Not for what I need."
She turned and walked slowly toward him, placing a cold hand on his cheek. He shuddered.
"You have clients, Conrad. Board members. People with real money." She smiled. "There's a charity gala at the Sterling Club tonight. You're taking me. And you're going to introduce me to the wealthiest person in the room."
"Yes," Conrad whispered.
Evelyn picked up a clutch purse from the glass table. "Good boy. Now go start the car."
Evelyn turned back to the mirror. She tilted her head slightly, studying the line of the gown, the curve of her jaw, the amber glow of her own eyes. She took her time.
When she finally reached the underground garage, the engine of his Aston Martin was already running. Conrad stood by the rear passenger door, holding it open.
Evelyn slid into the soft leather of the back seat, ignoring the front passenger side entirely. Conrad shut the door quietly, rounded the car, and got behind the wheel.
As the Aston Martin merged into the glittering arteries of Midtown traffic, Evelyn leaned back in the shadows.
"Tell me, Conrad," she asked, her voice soft over the low hum of the engine. "This gala tonight. Who is the wealthiest person attending? The biggest target."
Conrad didn't hesitate. "Richard Sterling. He owns the club, along with a controlling stake in three offshore shipping conglomerates. Net worth is estimated at eight point five billion."
"Sterling," Evelyn tasted the name. "Perfect."
The car slowed as traffic thickened, pulsing with the chaotic energy of the city's nightlife district. The Aston Martin crawled past a massive, multi-level nightclub. The line of people waiting to get in wrapped around the block. Neon lights bled into the wet asphalt. The heavy thud of bass vibrated against the car windows. Above the entrance, a giant sign pulsed in deep red: CRIMSON VEIL.
Evelyn stared at the club, a faint smile playing on her lips, before the car finally broke free of the traffic and accelerated into the night.
——Jax's Apartment.
The room was pitch black, except for the harsh blue light of the dual monitors.
Jax hadn't slept. His hands were shaking. He didn't know if he should keep going. He knew the rules now. Die on the first blind run, and he locked the reality in. He condemned real people to death.
But the paranoia was a physical itch in his brain. He needed to know what the monster was going to do next.
Jax took a deep breath, grabbed his mouse, and double-clicked the unmarked .exe.
LOADING LEVEL 4: THE VEIL.
Jax leaned forward, his fingers hovering over the keys. The screen faded in from black.
First-person view.
Instinct took over. The millisecond the environment rendered, Jax mashed the dodge key, executing a flawless backward combat roll. He braced for the inevitable roar, the sudden grab, the instant death screen.
Nothing happened.
Jax stopped rolling. He aimed his reticle wildly around the room. He was in a luxurious, dimly lit VIP lounge. The music was muffled, a heavy bass rhythm thumping through the floorboards.
Sitting on a leather sofa opposite him was a young, impossibly handsome boy. The boy wasn't a monster. He was just scrolling on his phone.
The boy looked up from the screen, staring at Jax's character with an expression of mild confusion, as if to say, Why did you just roll across the carpet? But he didn't say a word.
Jax blinked, realizing he had just panic-rolled for absolutely no reason. Okay. Not an instant-death spawn. Good.
He moved his character toward the expansive floor-to-ceiling window. Looking down, he saw the flashing neon lights and the dense crowd.
Through the rain-streaked glass, he could make out the street below. He knew this intersection.
CRIMSON VEIL. Jax recognized the club immediately. It was one of the most famous spots in the city.
He tapped the inventory key, scanning his HUD. He was playing as private security this time. He was wearing a custom-tailored, Kevlar-lined suit. His primary weapon was a SIG Sauer P320 pistol equipped with a suppressor. He had two spare magazines.
Alright. Stealth mission? Or hold out?
Jax turned back toward the heavy oak door leading out of the VIP room, ready to scout the hallway. Before his hand touched the doorknob, static crackled sharply in his earpiece.
"Boss," a panicked voice hissed over the radio. "Boss, do you copy?"
"I copy," Jax's character replied automatically, the voice deep and authoritative.
"We need backup down here right fucking now," the voice pleaded, the sound of tearing metal and a wet thud echoing in the background. "Sub-level one. The parking garage... they're in the breakroom. Oh god, there's more than one—"
The radio cut out in a burst of static.
Jax exhaled slowly. He moved his hand off the mouse and cracked his knuckles.
More than one. He needed to be perfect.