The exhibition hall buzzed with a polished hum, its towering ceilings and gleaming marble floors making every sound sharper—low voices chatting, champagne glasses clinking, fancy shoes shuffling softly.

Devon slipped through the crowd, his tailored black suit blending into the sea of expensive outfits, his faint smirk a mask for the tight knot of tension twisting in his chest.

The air carried the warm scent of old leather from ancient books, mixed with a faint spice of incense drifting from hidden burners, creating a rich backdrop for the rows of treasures—jade statues carved with eerie faces, gold boxes glittering with jewels, vibrant tapestries woven with golden threads—all glowing under the soft light of massive chandeliers.

Each piece screamed money and power. But beneath the fancy chatter, a darker vibe pulsed through the room, like a heartbeat nobody wanted to admit they heard—whispers about yesterday's chaos, the kidnapping that left the city streets stained with blood, and Devon, somehow, at the center of it all.

He stepped inside, his boots tapping lightly on the marble, his senses sharp as a blade. His mind was locked on the meeting. The hall felt alive, not just with people, but with eyes watching him, their stares prickling his skin like hot needles.

He kept his face calm, his smirk small and steady, but he couldn't shake the feeling that every move he made was being studied, judged, dissected.

Near a display of ancient surgical tools, a cluster of medical folks, doctors, surgeons, specialists stood together, their usual white coats swapped for sharp suits and sleek dresses.

Their voices were low but buzzing for the exhibition's next round.

At first, they talked shop—timelines, speeches, who'd present what but the conversation slid fast to the city's hottest gossip. "Did you hear about what happened yesterday with Devon Aldridge?"

"Yea I did."

"Blood all over the pavement," a gray-haired surgeon muttered, his voice quiet but cutting, his eyes flicking to Devon as he passed a jade statue with a serpent's grin. "Gunshots ringing out, bodies dropped in the street, how does a guy just walk away from that kind of mess?"

A younger doctor, her eyes sharp and narrow, leaned in close, her tone thick with doubt. "I can't believe he was kidnapped yesterday, and now he's here, strolling around like it's just another Tuesday?"

She pointed at Devon, her finger sneaky behind her champagne glass, thinking he wouldn't notice. But he did.

Others in the group shot quick looks, their stares heavy with questions, some curious, some suspicious, all sticking to him like burrs. Another surgeon, his tie loose and his face flushed from a drink, shook his head.

"I also heard the street was a war zone. Cops are still picking up bullet casings, blood stains everywhere. And he's just… here? Not a scratch on him?"

A woman in a sleek blue dress nodded, her voice barely above a whisper. "No bruises, no cuts. Something's not right. Nobody walks out of that looking like they just stepped off a runway."

Their whispers grew louder, a hum that followed Devon like a swarm of bees. Another voice piped up, a balding doctor with thick glasses.

"I heard he fought his way out. Took down three guys, maybe more. That true?" His friend snorted, skeptical.

"No way. That's insane."

Devon caught every word, every glance, every sneaky point of a finger. The stares burned into him, a hot itch at the back of his neck, but he kept moving, his boots soft on the marble, his smirk holding steady.

He shook hands with a passing guest, a fake smile plastered on.

He paused near a display of a golden reliquary, its jewels catching the chandelier light, pretending to study it while scanning the crowd.

The whispers didn't stop. "How'd he get out?" one voice hissed, low and urgent. "Armed guys, zip ties, a whole crew, and he's not even shaken?" another added, pointing sneaky, thinking Devon wouldn't see.

But he saw everything their eyes, their fingers, their hushed voices building a cage of suspicion around him. His gut churned, but he kept his cool, nodding at an older woman who smiled at him, her pearls gleaming, unaware of the storm brewing inside him.

Then a stare sliced through the crowd, sharp as a knife, stopping him cold.

A man in a charcoal suit, lean and hawk-like, stood by a gold box display, his eyes locked on Devon. Not with the curiosity or gossip of the others, but with something colder, darker, almost hungry, like a predator sizing up prey.

Unlike the doctors whispering about his survival, this guy's look screamed one thing: Why aren't you dead? His sharp face stayed still, his lips a thin line, but his eyes burned with a mix of anger and shock, like Devon being alive was a personal insult, a plan gone wrong.

Devon's steps slowed, his own eyes narrowing, a spark of instinct flaring in his chest. He didn't know the man's face, but he knew that look danger, raw and real.

Something was wrong, and his gut screamed it. The man's lips twitched, a quick grimace, like he'd bitten something sour, before he turned away, pulling a phone from his pocket and pressing it to his ear.

He moved fast, slipping through the crowd toward a spiral staircase at the far end of the hall, his steps sharp, his shoulders hunched, like a man with a secret he couldn't hold in.

Devon's hand brushed the pistol hidden under his suit jacket, the cold metal a steady anchor against the heat rising in his chest. His instincts roared to follow, to find out what this guy knew, why his stare felt like a threat.

The man glanced back once, his eyes meeting Devon's for a split second, a deep, piercing stare that sealed it—this was no coincidence.

Devon moved, weaving through the crowd with smooth ease, his smirk gone, his focus tight as a wire. Yvonne's guards stood at the hall's edges, their eyes scanning like machines, but he kept his pace casual, nodding at a passing guest, a fake smile flashing to blend in.

His boots were silent on the carpeted stairs as he followed, the buzz of the exhibition fading to a low hum behind him.

The staircase curved upward, its polished wood gleaming under dim lights, the noise of the hall dropping away like a curtain.

At the top, a shadowy hallway stretched out, lined with heavy wooden doors, each leading to private rooms for big shots or secret deals.

The air up here was cooler, quieter, the incense scent fainter, replaced by the musty smell of old wood and dust.

Devon's steps slowed, his senses on edge, every creak of the floorboards under his boots sounding loud in the silence. The man slipped into a room halfway down the hall, the door clicking shut, but not before Devon caught his voice, low and angry, spilling through the crack like poison.

"I thought you said Devon was handled," the man hissed into his phone, his tone sharp with venom, each word hitting like a punch. "You swore he'd be gone by now, out of the picture. Why the hell is he still alive, strutting around this place?"

Devon froze, his back pressed against the wall outside the door, his breath steady but his frown deep, the man's words slicing through him like a blade.

"If he's not with us, he's a problem," the man snapped, his voice rising, shaking with urgency. "Then there is no reason why he's still alive. we need him dead, got it? Dead."

The call dragged on, the man's tone a mix of rage and panic, his words tumbling out faster now. "No, no more excuses," he growled, pacing the room, his shoes scuffing the hardwood.

"You said it was a sure thing, a clean job. How'd he walk out? He shouldn't be breathing!" The other person's voice was muffled, too low for Devon to hear, but it only made the man angrier.

"I don't care how it happened, fix it! Do it now, or I'll take care of it myself!"

Devon's hand tightened on his pistol, his mind racing. Someone had ordered his kidnapping, maybe his death, and this guy was neck-deep in it, tied to the warehouse, the blood, the chaos of yesterday.

The meeting felt even way more personal now.

Devon's heart pounded, but his face stayed cold, his eyes like ice. He glanced down the hallway empty, no guards, no witnesses.

The faint hum of the exhibition drifted up from below, a reminder of the world he'd left behind, but up here, it was just him and the man's voice, each word tightening the knot in his chest.

He took a slow breath, steadying himself, his fingers firm on the pistol's grip. He pushed the door open, stepping inside with a quiet, deliberate stride, his boots silent on the hardwood floor.

The room was small, a wooden table, two leather chairs, a window showing the city's skyline, the buildings sharp against the morning sky. The air was thick, heavy with fear, like the room itself knew what was coming.

The man froze, his phone still pressed to his ear, his eyes widening as they locked onto Devon. His face twisted into a grim mask of shock, his skin paling under the dim light, his sharp features looking sharper, almost skeletal.

"You—" he stammered, his voice cracking, his phone slipping in his hand as he stumbled back, his polished shoes scuffing the floor, his back slamming into the wall with a dull thud.

Devon moved fast, his pistol sliding out smooth, the black metal catching the faint light, its barrel steady as he aimed it at the man's chest.

The man's phone clattered to the floor, bouncing once before it skidded under the table, his hands shooting up in surrender, his knees buckling as he dropped to the ground like a puppet with cut strings.

Horror was written all over his face, his eyes wide and darting, searching for a way out that didn't exist. "Please," he gasped, his voice trembling, sweat dripping down his pale skin, pooling at his collar. "Wait I-i can explain, I swear—" he choked out, his earlier anger gone, replaced by raw, shaking panic, his hands trembling in the air like leaves in a storm.

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