The night is winding down when it happens. The club’s heartbeat has slowed — no more pounding bass, no more flashing strobes — just the low hum of chatter, the clink of glasses, the dull ache of neon bleeding across the walls. Eli has finished his set of meetings, lounging back on the leather couch in the VIP, cigar smoke curling around him like a crown. Dean sits at his shoulder, the ever-present shadow, scanning exits, watching faces, every nerve wired for threat.