Page 67 of Corrupt

It was here.

And so was I.

chapter fourteen

Razor

The Velvet Lounge looked wrong in daylight. Lights up, no bodies, the smell of bleach fighting the ghosts of last night’s sweat and spilt cocktails. A couple of cleaners were mopping. Finch was fixing a wobbly bar stool. Security uniforms hung on hooks like empty skins waiting to be filled.

Tyler met me at the office door, hair damp as if he’d bolted out of the shower the second I texted. “Didn’t think you’d be back yet.”

“Didn’t ask you to predict my movements.” I shouldered past him.

He followed me in, shutting the door with that cautious little click he did when he sensed trouble.

“What’s up?” He folded his arms. “This about that bloke from last night? You knew him, yeah? Same one from when we booted that older geezer?”

I ignored the question and pulled the stool to the CCTV rack, fingers flying across the controls. “I want every angle from last night wiped.”

Tyler blinked. “What?”

I looked up. “Everything that shows him. Everything that shows me with him. Gone.”

He hesitated a fraction too long.

“This doesn’t go back to Cormac,” I added, voice low. “And staff stick to the line: I removed a threat.”

Tyler nodded stiffly. “Alright. Say no more.”

“Good.” I waved at the door. “Now fuck off. And tell the crew if they open their mouths, they’re out. No warnings.”

His jaw worked, uncertainty there, but he didn’t push it. He backed out and shut the door behind him. I worked quick. Scrubbing through the feeds, watching myself reappear in flickers, static warping my outline, dropped frames swallowing Tristan whole. Tyler had already done half the job without being told. Good instincts. Bad timing.

I isolated each angle: dance floor, hallway, stairwell. Rear exit. And there I was, shoulder-checking bodies aside, hauling Tristan half-conscious into my chest, fury written across every frame. And there, his head lolling against my neck. His hands slipping. My arm tightening around his waist like a reflex. I dug into the coding panel, corrupting timestamps, running the loop-back, layering a false equipment-damage file over the raw edits. Incoming static bled through the recordings, chewing whole seconds, dissolving shapes. I destroyed everything recognisable until the footage looked like a dying camera screaming for replacement, not a deliberate erasure.

When the last file blinked out, the door creaked open and Tyler slipped inside. “All sorted,” he said, wiping his hands on his jeans.

“Good.”

“You gonna tell me—”

I pushed the stool back and stood so fast his question died in his throat.

“Blond was a plant,” I said flatly. “Sent to test our entry points. See how fast we react. That’s all you need to know.”

Tyler’s eyebrows twitched. He didn’t buy it. He also wasn’t suicidal.

I stepped closer, lowering my voice. “Tonight runs smooth. You handle it. I won’t be in.”

He blinked. “Saturday? You always—”

“Not today.”

And that was that.

He shut his mouth, nodded once, and backed out of the office before his curiosity talked him into an early grave.

I left the Lounge before anything else could follow me out. Drove back towards the Wick with the windows down, the air thick with the smell of fried food and petrol. My head was a noise I didn’t want to listen to. I parked, ducked into the Greek deli on the corner, bought two hot boxes of whatever the old woman behind the counter insisted I “needed,” and grabbed a full-fat Coke for him. Because he’d want it. He’d need it. And some pathetic part of me liked the idea of him drinking it in my shirt.