Chapter 188: 189 | Don’t Call Me That
The Mercedes cut through downtown traffic with the kind of quiet authority that only a car worth more than most apartments could manage. Street lights painted the leather interior in passing gold. I watched Century City slide by through tinted glass. Restaurants and boutiques and the occasional hero agency office, all of them lit up for the evening crowd.
My phone buzzed.
Mera: in position. two blocks east. cheon has binoculars
Me: binoculars? seriously?
Mera: she bought them this afternoon. military grade. please dont ask
Me: i’m asking
Mera: she said and i quote "tactical observation equipment is a reasonable investment given our current threat matrix"
Me: she really said threat matrix
Mera: she really said threat matrix
I put the phone down and rubbed my face with both hands.
The woman I was sleeping with had purchased military binoculars to surveil my meeting with my estranged half-sister. My other girlfriend had burned through most of her dimensional teleportation reserves to function as my personal extraction team. My third had kissed me during training this morning and probably still tasted like my lip balm. My fourth was a retired four-star hero who wanted to study me in her lab and also in her bedroom. And the fifth had asked me for time to break up with the guy I’d knocked unconscious in front of the entire academy.
Normal Tuesday stuff.
"Sir." Marco’s voice from the front seat. "We’re three minutes out."
"Thanks."
I straightened in the seat. Checked my collar. Made sure the concealer Cheon had applied still covered the marks on my neck. Ran my tongue across my teeth. Took a breath.
The Crimson Lotus occupied the ground floor of a building on Harbor Street, wedged between a high-end sushi place and a private art gallery. The exterior gave nothing away. Matte black facade. No signage except a small lotus symbol etched into brushed steel beside the door. Two bouncers in tailored suits flanked the entrance. The kind of men who looked polite right up until you gave them a reason not to be.
Marco pulled the Mercedes to the curb.
"I’ll be circling the block."
"Keep the engine warm."
"Always do, sir."
I stepped out into the night air. Century City smelled like ocean salt and expensive perfume and money. The bouncers tracked my approach with the blank professionalism of men who spent their lives cataloguing potential threats.
"Name?"
"D’Angelo."
The bouncer on the left checked a tablet. His eyebrow moved exactly one millimeter upward. "You’re expected. Third floor. Elevator on your right past the bar."
He held the door open. I walked through.
The ground floor of the Crimson Lotus looked like someone had distilled the concept of wealthy discretion into physical space. Low ceilings. Warm lighting from recessed fixtures. A bar running the length of the left wall, all dark wood and amber bottles. The clientele dressed the way people dress when they’ve stopped needing to impress anyone. Quiet conversations. Expensive watches. The kind of laughter that happens between people who own things.
Nobody looked at me.
That was the point.
I found the elevator. Chrome doors. No button panel. Just a card reader.
A woman materialized beside me. Black dress. Hair pinned up. She wore a smile that probably came with the job.
"Mr. D’Angelo. I’ll take you up."
She pressed her badge to the reader. The doors opened without sound.
The elevator was small. One mirror. One camera in the upper corner. She stood beside me with her hands folded. Didn’t make conversation. Good. I was running out of small talk for the week.
Third floor. The doors opened onto a hallway that felt more like a hotel than a club. Carpet thick enough to swallow footsteps. Numbered doors on both sides. Music from somewhere below vibrated through the floor. A bass line I couldn’t name.
"Room 7. End of the hall."
"Thanks."
She disappeared back into the elevator. The doors closed. I stood alone in the hallway.
Room 7. End of the hall. My half-sister waiting behind that door with information she claimed would change everything.
I pulled out my phone.
Me: going in. room 7, third floor.
Cheon: Copy. We have visual on the building exterior. Two exit points identified. Mera has portal coordinates locked for the third floor hallway. Signal is "pineapple" by text or verbal. Response time estimated at four seconds.
Mera: also if she touches you weird im coming in regardless
Me: define weird
Mera: ill know it when i see it
Me: you cant see through walls
Mera: then dont let her touch you weird
I pocketed the phone and walked to room 7.
The door was cracked open. Golden light spilled into the hallway through the gap.
I pushed it wide.
The room was larger than expected. Floor to ceiling windows overlooking the harbor. A sectional sofa in dark leather curving around a glass coffee table. A minibar in the corner, bottles arranged with the kind of symmetry that suggested someone who cared too much about presentation. A single orchid in a crystal vase on the table. White. Perfect.
Vivian sat on the sofa with her legs crossed and a glass of red wine balanced in her right hand.
She looked exactly the way she had on the FaceTime call, which is to say she looked like trouble with a trust fund. Twenty-three years old but wearing it like thirty-five. Sharp jawline that came from our father’s side. Dark hair, almost black, falling past her shoulders in a way that looked effortless and absolutely was not. Blue eyes. Not grey like mine. Not green like my other one. A cold electric blue that caught the light and held it prisoner.
Her dress was dark red. Fitted. The neckline plunged deep enough to make a statement without making a demand. Silver earrings. No necklace. Her makeup had been applied with the same obsessive attention to detail that Cheon brought to spreadsheets, except the result was less organized scholar and more woman who could ruin your life over cocktails.
She looked like a weapon someone had disguised as a person.
"Ro Ro."
"Don’t call me that."
"But it’s your name."
"It absolutely is not."
Vivian smiled. The kind of smile that showed teeth and meant business. She gestured to the seat across from her with her wine glass.
"Sit down. You look like you’re about to bolt."
"I’m deciding."
"Between sitting and bolting?"
"Between sitting and throwing you out that window."
