Chapter 24. The Wrong Side of the Game

It began with the unmistakable click of heels on concrete. Not the hurried patter of an overworked marketing intern racing down the corridor, nor the practical, hurried tread of a delivery person balancing heavy packages. These steps were measured, deliberate—each tap a quiet announcement of purpose rather than mere arrival. In that echo, there was warning.

Alyssa didn’t look up at first. She was bent over her drafting table in the center of the studio, elbows dusted with charcoal shavings and fingers stained gray. The early sketch for her next installation lay spread before her: sweeping curves and jagged angles, a restless dance of shadow and form. A low, ambient hum drifted from her phone’s speakers—a soft, pulseless current that filled the room without demanding attention. Outside, thick clouds had gathered in a low ceiling of slate gray, the charged stillness of a storm brewing on the horizon. The studio’s corners felt fragile, as if any stray breath might scatter her car